Amongst the Living
by Quiet2885
Summary: Vignettes that follow “When All is Lost.” Now that the battle is over, lives must slowly be reclaimed. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

Here are the vignettes for "When All is Lost." If you're looking for high action and a complex plot, this probably isn't the place to find it. These vignettes are for those readers who wanted to see a glimpse of the characters' lives afterward in a semi-normal setting. Some will be sweeter, and some will be more angsty. Of course, I will do my best to keep them interesting.

A couple of these scenes may be M-rated. I will change the rating and alert you at the top of the vignette when that is so. That way, those who want to avoid these scenes can still enjoy the other vignettes. That said, the scenes will never become smutty or distasteful.

I hope you enjoy them. Thank you as always for your continuing support. And a big thanks to _MadLizzy_ for her continuing help with this saga.

_Disclaimer: I sadly do not own the characters of_ The Phantom of the Opera_. Everything belongs to Gaston Leroux. _Phantom_ is owned by Susan Kay._

**Read and Review!!!**

Three knocks at the door startled Christine as she positioned a painting from her father's house on the apartment wall. Although they'd been safe ever since returning to the country, the paranoia of London still followed her, subconsciously preparing her for anything that might jump out of the shadows.

Fortunately, she was also engaged to someone who enjoyed leaping out of the shadows. Erik was at the window before she could move, peeling back the blinds and discreetly staring at the intruders. One hand was positioned near the pocket of his suit. Her heart gave a nervous little jump.

After a moment, he walked away with a dismissing wave of his hand. "It is a…boy," he muttered. "A smaller one." He silently vanished before she could reply, probably to the same place he hid when she'd called a repairman to come look at the air conditioner. Pushing her limp hair back, Christine glanced through the peephole and opened the door. Her old car was out front, and she didn't want to become the 'suspicious neighbor who never talked to anyone.'

A skinny boy with red curls, probably around thirteen years old, was standing there, holding a white cardboard box with both hands. He looked up, blinked, and spoke in a rehearsed tone, "Hi. Um…I'm selling chocolate for…uh…new football team uniforms." His cheeks turned a little red.

Maybe if she acted nice and normal, people would ignore her. Christine put on a bright smile. "I'd love to buy one!"

She must have been a bit too enthusiastic. The boy gave her an odd glance and then smiled and reached into the box. "All right. Thanks. They're one dollar each."

"Give me two," she said after a moment. "I'll save one for dessert."

"Okay, ma'am. Thanks!" They exchanged candy bars and money. Christine closed the door and exhaled with relief, continuing to wonder whether it was a good idea to move into a populated area. Erik appeared by her side seconds later, casting an irritated glance toward the closed door and muttering. She took his hand and looked around her.

One bedroom, a kitchenette, a living area, a bathroom, a half-bathroom, and a laundry room…all decorated with identical grey-blue carpet and perfectly square windows.

That was the apartment.

Still, despite its size, Christine felt rather possessive of it, as though the small home were a victory prize after a long battle. They'd decided to claim a place for themselves before they got married, a place to find privacy and call their own. They'd rented it soon after arriving in Boston and paid for two months ahead, still having enough money to buy necessities until she could find a job. The rooms were half-furnished with a bed, tables, chairs, and sofas, which saved them the trouble of having furniture delivered.

"I know it's small," she said, noticing that Erik was staring at their surroundings, too. "It's just temporary, though. And then we can--"

"It is fine," he softly interrupted. "It is ours."

"Well…we're renting it. But yes. It's kind of ours." She set the candy on the coffee table. "I got you some chocolate."

Erik glanced at it. "Will children always be intruding onto our property?"

She laughed. "Sometimes they might. For fundraisers. And Halloween." Erik's eyes were disturbed, and his fingers curled. "As long as we're nice to them, they won't get suspicious. It'll be okay." Noticing that the picture was still crooked, she walked over to adjust it. It was a small oil painting of a Victorian American city during the wintertime. She'd liked staring at it since she was a little girl and had kept it after leaving.

When Christine had fixed the painting and turned around, she saw that Erik had taken off his mask again. His expression was blank, as though he wasn't quite sure what to do or where to go. She had once mistaken that very expression for boredom during their travels.

Erik had recently existed in a world of constant action, moving from one place to the next without laws or boundaries--without conscience. Even if such a lifestyle were frightening, how could a domestic life with her compete with it? Her fears slipped out one night while they were in a hotel in Pennsylvania. He was staring at the wall with a blank expression, unmoving. "I guess this isn't very exciting for you, is it?" she'd murmured with a soft laugh.

"Exciting?" he'd asked, glancing at her. "Do you wish to go out? I will take you after dark."

"No. I'm fine." She cleared her throat. "I just know this all isn't as exciting as everything you've done…moving from place to place…."

"Everything _I_ have done?" He sat up and stared at her intensely enough to make her squirm. "You truly believe that I enjoyed those five years?"

"No! Not _enjoyed_. Just…" She sighed, trying to put it into the right words.

"I spent each of those years planning the most efficient way to kill myself. The lasso? A rope? Or perhaps I should forget the noose; perhaps a bullet would give the highest rate of success? Which of those sounds most _exciting_ to you, Christine?"

He hadn't been angry with her in some time. She'd grimaced. "Oh. No. I--"

"There has never been a moment—_never!_—when I wished to return to those days. There never will be. _Never._ Do not ever think otherwise. You do not know what…" He tapered off and looked away.

"I'm sorry," she replied. "I didn't mean anything by it. I just didn't want you to get tired of all this." _Of me._

They'd sat in a somber silence for several minutes. Finally, he'd said, "Christine," and reached for her with both arms. "I will never grow tired of _this_." She'd embraced him without hesitation and never made the implication again.

Now, as Erik stood in the middle of the living room with the blank expression, she merely walked back to his side and took his icy hand. She guided him to the couch, and they sat down together. "Have you figured out all the forms?" she asked, still holding his hand. "For marriage?" He'd gone out two nights in a row to deal with them. She never asked as to exactly what took place, only trusted that it was nothing…too sinister.

"Yes!" His eyes brightened. "They are nearly finished. It was no trouble." Erik paused. "I do not know if it is a requirement to actually see the applicants."

"Your mask."

"I will do whatever I must to wed you."

She smiled in gratitude, hoping their day of marriage would be kind to them. "How soon do you want to?"

"As soon as possible. Tomorrow. The next day. I want my wife."

"All right. I'll call." She rested her head against his shoulder. "Hmm. I wonder if they'll provide witnesses. I think they will."

"Mr. Lewis?"

She hesitated. "I don't want to bother Gavin for awhile." They'd only seen him once since their two weeks back in the city. He'd been friendly and in good spirits, but she also sensed that he was trying to repair things back home. They'd come to a silent agreement to keep a distance while they sorted out their own affairs--unless there was an emergency, of course.

Erik shrugged. "Ah. Well, surely someone will want to witness the marriage of a living corpse and a lovely young maiden. It is a fine attraction, nearly worth paying a fee to observe."

"Erik! Why do you have to say those things?" She poked him on the arm with her index finger and looked up at him. His mouth had its familiar half-smile.

Over the weeks, Christine had begun to learn more about his face, for example, the thinner side had more feeling when touched. He also preferred to chew his food on that side. Erik never objected to her resting a hand on his cheek, even when she brushed her fingers over irritated spots that surely caused him pain. To her delight, though, it appeared that the reddened patches were fading now that he didn't wear the mask as often.

"We'll get married somehow," she murmured. "Even if we have to drive to Vegas and find one of those strange theme weddings."

"A theme wedding?"

_So Erik didn't know everything in the world…_She suppressed a giggle. "Nothing. I'll go make some phone calls." Christine kissed his cheek and hopped up from the sofa.

She'd already bought a dress in Chicago, a white summer one with small frills at the end and embroidered daisies on the edges and straps. It was nowhere near as elaborate as her wedding gown of over a year ago—it wasn't even from a wedding boutique—but the dress was right for this occasion. The material was light and freeing.

Christine made several phone calls to make arrangements for a marriage license and solemnization within the next week. They'd decided to go to Rhode Island for both because there was no waiting period for the license. It all seemed so technical for such an emotional occasion. Then again, she'd abandoned the idea of a carefree fairy tale ending months ago and rarely expected anything to be easy. Still, she believed with all her heart that happily-ever-after was still within reach.

* * *

There was nothing he could wear that would make him any less ugly. 

The suit was new; he'd 'purchased' it while organizing the forged marriage records. Still, he was nothing more than a walking cadaver in elegant clothing. The semi-expensive black material hung loosely over him, contrasting with his pale skin. He tied the mask on to see if that helped. It made him look slightly less repulsive and more imposing, which was the most he could have hoped for.

He prepared for anything when they went to retrieve the license and wed, knowing that parts of the evening would make him irate. They were going at the latest hour that the offices were open, which ideally meant that fewer people would be near.

Christine emerged in her dress. At one glance, he nearly fell to his knees at her feet, only restraining himself because she ran past him and said, "I can't find my purse."

His lip twitched in amusement. "It is on the sofa."

She walked to the cushion and scooped it up. After taking a plastic brush from inside and running it through her hair, she finally looked over at him. He nearly wanted to crawl into the laundry room closet, where he had taken to hiding whenever visitors came. Christine smiled. "That's a new suit, isn't it? It looks wonderful."

He gave a clipped laugh. "I fear that it does little good for me. But you..." His gaze fell from her face to her sandaled feet. "I shall spend the rest of my existence fighting dim-witted boys away from you. You are divine."

With her purse slung over her right shoulder, she approached him, face aglow. He allowed his hand to rest on her left shoulder as they walked outside, her warm skin smooth beneath his icy palm. After she'd developed a sickly pallor in London, her coloring had improved over the past month.

The ride there was quiet, and he checked once to make sure he had the proper documentation for the license. The forgery and social security number falsification had been simple, easier than many things he'd done in the past.

Truthfully, there had been no death at his hands since the crazed confrontation with Ms. Neumanns. It wasn't that he was incapable of covering up such an act and ensuring that Christine never knew. His love didn't even watch the news every night. And it wasn't that he had any new respect or liking for the rest of the human race.

It was simply that…well…_What was it?_ Perhaps it was because he wanted to be able to look her in the eye whenever she showed him affection and said, "I love you." Of course, if anyone tried to lay a hand on her or ruin their bliss, he would have no qualms about bringing out the lasso.

He watched her as she drove, his death's skin tingling at the thought that she would soon be his living bride. Christine turned to him after she had parked, her eyes glistening. "Ready?"

_God, yes. _"Yes."

* * *

She felt protective of Erik as they entered the two-story brick building. Ever since London, she'd been on watch for photographers and journalists. Occasionally, she ran into them during the daytime and declined their questions. Some were more persistent than others, but she was never ambushed to the point of fear. They began to drift away as the uproar over _Falcon_ died down. No one ever discovered Erik. 

Thankfully, the lights in the complex weren't too bright, and the entryway wasn't very busy. No one paid them notice when they first walked inside. The faint smell of polished wood and perfume greeted her, and the building was a comfortable temperature.

She could feel Erik's tension as he kept toward the wooden wall. Entering a building through the front door was a rare experience for him. She held his hand tightly, walking forward to the county clerk's office with determination. "Oh!" Christine paused and turned to him. "Do you want to hold my ring now? And I'll keep yours."

"But you must wear your ring." He kept his voice barely audible.

"I will. But you have to give it to me when we're married. And we'll exchange them."

He paused. "We will exchange them now?"

"Within an hour or so."

"Fine." Erik almost appeared forlorn as she slipped the gold band off her finger and handed it to him. She felt the need for a little bit of ceremony, though. He stood to the side as they approached the window, and she could feel her heart hammering.

The older female clerk yawned as Christine presented the application and birth certificates. After a minute, she seemed to notice that only Christine was visible. "Ma'am, both of you need to be present for this."

"We are," she replied, stepping aside. _Please, please, please let this work. _

As Erik took a slow step into view, the older woman looked over her glasses and up at him, her hazel eyes slowly widening as she arrived at the mask. She cleared her throat and swallowed. "Sir," she began, glancing down at the forms. "May I see your face?"

Christine could feel waves of anger radiating off her silent fiancé. She took a deep breath and spoke. "He was in an accident recently. His face was injured."

The woman pursed her lips. "This is highly unusual. I really need to see you both." Likely noticing Christine's widening frown, she softened her voice. "I'm sure it's not that bad."

"Your night will be all the more pleasant if you do not see," Erik whispered. "All the more pleasant."

The woman blinked and rubbed her ear. "I…Do you…do you have a photo?"

Christine was about to say, "no," but Erik suddenly took out a small laminated card and placed it on the counter. She glanced down to see a picture of an unfamiliar middle-aged man on it. "That was before the accident," Christine blurted out, not wanting to get caught in her lie.

"All right," the woman mumbled after looking over the information on it. The clerk cast a last nervous glance toward Erik and then looked to her computer. "You can…That's fine. I'll get you your license if you'll wait several minutes."

Christine exhaled. Erik was silent as he stepped back to the side. They signed their names when the clerk was finished. _Christine Daae. Erik Ackart._ It was the first time Christine had seen them written together, and she couldn't help but smile.

As they walked away to find the justice who would marry them in a private room, people did catch sight of them. Some often stared for longer than necessary or whispered to their companions, but no one screamed or ran in the other direction. Christine merely held onto Erik's hand and kept her gaze forward.

They were six minutes early for their appointment. The justice was middle-aged with glasses and trimmed brown hair. Two city workers that would serve as witnesses, both older women, were also seated inside, quietly chatting and drinking water from paper cups. All three looked up when they entered. Christine paused in mid-step and then said, "Hi."

They jerked their gaze away from Erik to look at her. "Good evening," the justice replied, looking her in the eye and giving her a small close-lipped smile. "Are you ready?"

"Yes. I think so." She showed him the license. One of the women continued to stare at Erik. Christine spoke to her. "I like your earrings." If there was anything she had learned from Leonie, it was the advantage that came from being nice to someone's face.

The lady glanced up at her, squirming and turning slightly red. "Oh. Thank you. They were an anniversary present."

"That's nice." Christine turned away. Erik was taking deep, steady breaths beside her, and she squeezed his hand.

"Do you have your own vows?" asked the justice. He was much shorter than Erik and had to sharply turn his head during the few times that he glanced up at her fiancé. "Some people do."

"No," she replied. "Just…"

"The standard vows?"

"Yes." She was grateful for his calmness and maturity. "But we do have rings."

"All right, then. Let's begin."

* * *

He'd rarely felt such a conflict of emotions in one evening. He despised those who brought them discomfort, and it was only Christine's continuous hold on his hand that kept him from jumping forward and grabbing several people by the neck. _Let them stare at him as their eyeballs bulged out of their sockets!_ But he loved her more with each moment, her refusal to be ashamed of him. The look of peace in her eyes kept him calm. 

The justice's words came in a nonsensical whirl. He repeated the vows in a low voice, not once taking his eyes off Christine. It was safest if he could convince himself that she was the only one in the room, and her voice was also soothing as she repeated the words. Toward the end, they exchanged rings, and he was consoled to see the gold band resume its place on her finger. And he had one, too!

At the proper time, he uttered a very soft, slightly musical, "I do." A tear ran down her cheek as Christine repeated the same words moments later. She then leaned forward and kissed the visible portion of his jaw, careful not to disturb the mask.

When all was finished, Christine murmured a thank you to the justice. The man nodded back and wished her well. As they were leaving, one of the women murmured something about 'the tragic, misguided girl.' Seeing a flash of red, he started to whirl around and face the wench. Christine clutched his hand. 'Just ignore her," she whispered. "They don't matter. We'll never see them again."

The red faded; it wouldn't do to kill anyone on their wedding day. He walked forward, his eyes darting over the other people, particularly the males. _She is mine now! Mine to touch and love and keep. And none of you undeserving fools will ever have her. _He kept her close, proudly holding onto her arm, and only relaxed again when they stepped outside. His face felt sticky and sore beneath the mask, and he was aching to be alone with her.

As soon as they climbed into the car, she removed the porcelain and shook her head. "We've got to find you something more comfortable."

"What are you doing?" He reached for the mask.

"We didn't get to kiss," she replied and then leaned forward to do so. For a spark of a moment, he forgot everything but her. She put her hand on the back of his head and pulled him closer. He allowed a hand to rest in her hair, his fingers threading through the soft strands as their lips touched. They remained like that until breath was required.

"Your wedding day was not ideal, I suppose," he murmured, reluctantly releasing her.

She shrugged. "It was fine. We're married now. That was all I wanted."

"Yes. We are wed. Forever." He still hadn't quite wrapped his mind around it.

After giving him a last quick kiss, Christine pulled out of the parking lot and stared blankly at the road. "Left," he said. Her sense of direction was sometimes poor. He would have to ensure that she never got lost. Or hurt. Or kidnapped….

"Thanks." She turned and became comfortable on the main street. "Do you want anything to eat? We could pick something up at one of the nicer restaurants on the way."

"I am not hungry. But you may."

"No. I'm ready to get home. Maybe tomorrow we can have a nice dinner." Despite the awkwardness of the evening, her eyes held happiness. Every so often, she glanced at him with a small smile. He kept his mask off throughout the drive.

As they neared their home, he stared down at his ring. _His_ ring. _His _wife. _His_ apartment.

_His _life.


	2. Chapter 2

So…here's the wedding night. There's nothing described in extensive detail, but there are a few mature subjects discussed. And it _is_ a wedding night. I've changed the rating as a precaution and for possible future vignettes. Still, if you don't want to read anything that has to do with this subject, please feel free to skip it.

If you haven't seen it yet, I've posted another wonderful picture by _Biskuits_ in my profile. It's an E/C scene from "When All is Lost" that I'm sure you'll enjoy.

Thank you all for your wonderful comments. I was happily surprised to see how many people wanted to read these vignettes. And a big thanks to _MadLizzy _for her help with this difficult chapter. I hope you all enjoy it.

**Read and Review!!!**

It didn't quite sink in until they'd arrived at the street on which their apartment was located, _Maelstrom Drive_. A light-hearted jitteriness made her hands shake as she parked and turned off the engine. _She was married. Married. _Christine glanced to the side and saw him watching her, feeling her face warm as she opened the car door.

They quickly walked to the front entrance of the apartment, a pleasant breeze whipping against her face and causing her dress to sway. It wasn't extremely late, but the sky was darkening, and a few stars dotted the sky. She inhaled, smelling the ocean, and decided that they would have to take a nighttime walk on the beach before summer ended. Joy pervaded her veins, nearly making her dizzy. The winter of sorrow and death seemed distant.

Once they were inside the safety of their home,Christine turned and locked the door, barricading them from the rest of the world. She whirled back around, and they stared at each other. And then she ran forward and embraced him. "We're married!"

Erik didn't reply. After tossing the mask on a nearby table, he pressed his lips against her forehead and tightly wound his arms around her. Her heart pounded in time with his, and she forced herself not to cry, not wanting to become a sobbing mess that evening. Erik always looked a little panicked when she cried, even when she assured him that they were tears of happiness.

After they remained in that position for over a minute, he spoke. "Do you want…the violin? A wedding song, perhaps?"

"No. I'd rather just be with each other." She was selfish and didn't want to share him with his music that night.

"Very well." His voice was hoarse. Still half-embraced, they sat on the sofa together. She looked up at him, finding his expression unreadable. She touched the less mobile corner of his lip. Like the rest of him, it was cold and dry. He looked into her eyes as she continued to caress his face. "You have the ugliest husband in the world. No other woman has the privilege of saying that."

"I love you," she merely replied and kissed him. It was useless to tell him that he wasn't ugly; he would only scoff and tell her that her lies were very sweet. By now, he at least seemed to believe that she did love him, face included, and that she didn't care what the rest of the world thought. She wasn't an aggressive person by any means, but, whenever anyone stared at Erik for longer than necessary, Christine felt the desire to slap them.

He returned the kiss, and she felt a gentle eagerness. Cheeks flushed, she pulled back when the kiss ended and tucked her hair behind her ear. "Are you hungry yet? There's vanilla pudding and fried rice in the fridge." Her voice shook.

"No. I am not hungry."

"Yeah. That doesn't sound very good, does it? I should probably throw the rice out."

"Indeed."

She swallowed, still unable to read his eyes. His fingers were timidly stroking her back up and down, and his breath was unsteady. "You are painfully lovely," he murmured with a hint of longing and a touch of self-loathing.

That was all she needed. Gathering her courage, Christine stood. He looked up at her in surprise, and she tugged on his hand. Erik silently rose to stand beside her, and they walked the short distance to the darkened bedroom. She guided him inside, faced him, and took his hands. "I'll be right back." He merely nodded; she smiled in reassurance.

After pulling a silky light-blue nightgown out of the closet, she walked to the bathroom to change, feeling his eyes always upon her. Goosebumps dotted her arms as she slipped off the dress and put on the gown. She'd been preparing for this night, though, taking care with each detail. A few months ago, she'd left a little container of pills out in plain view. She'd felt too uncomfortable to tell him what they were, but she hadn't wanted them to be some deep secret. Erik never indicated that he was upset by them.

With Raoul, Christine knew that they would have children. She hadn't wanted them as soon as he did (or quite as many), but they were always part of the plan. And she had no doubts in her mind that Raoul would be a good father.

Did she still want children? Well…honestly, yes. Yes, she did. There was something heartwarming and beautiful about a part of her and Erik continuing on…and…well…She certainly didn't want them _now_—that would be a disaster!--but maybe someday. In ten years, she would only be in her early thirties. And Erik would still be middle-aged. Maybe by then…

She forced the thoughts from her mind, almost embarrassed. They had years and years to consider complicated matters. At the moment, she wanted to focus on the evening.

Ever since she had grasped the concept of a wedding night, Christine had always pictured a husband carrying her into the bedroom and taking control of the situation. But she was in control now, and her hands were still shaking. Looking in the mirror, she fluffed out her hair and straightened her nightgown. After adding a little blush and dabbing some perfume behind her ears, she returned to the bedroom, her heart hammering in her chest.

He was standing exactly where she left him with his arms limply at his sides. For some reason, that brought a fresh tear to her eye; she quickly wiped it away.

And then she approached him.

* * *

He could see her trembling as she reentered the bedroom. His hellish life told him that it was out of disgust at what she thought was expected of her. The part of his mind that wanted to hope whispered that she was merely unsure of herself. The voices battled until her kiss silenced them both. 

She pulled him close as they stood beside the bed, her arms hooked up around his shoulders. His hands brushed against the soft material of her nightclothes; the texture reminded him of some of the women's colorful garments in India.

It was not lost on him how much these moments had improved over the months. After their first kiss, the dear girl had looked so nauseous that he was certain it would be the last time. And he hadn't blamed her.

But it had not been the last time. She glowed now, no trace of disgust in her eyes. He had a wife. And she actually let him near her. If someone had told him that this would be his fate a year ago, he would have crudely laughed at them. And then killed them for their stupidity.

Christine slowly took his jacket off, and he didn't protest. She hung it on a nearby chair and returned to him. He took her hand and kissed her fingers, detecting soap on them. She smiled. _His_ smile.

It was only when she started on the buttons of his white shirt that his heart stopped. He stared deeply into her eyes, skillfully interpreting every blink, eyebrow movement, and the direction of her gaze. The conclusion was beautiful and damning. She wanted everything. It was not out of obligation. He stepped backward.

She stared at him, one hand still reaching outward. "What--what's wrong?"

He paused and glanced away from her, desperately trying to think. Little voices from the past danced around in his head, some taunting him. And he knew there was only one way that his mind even had a chance at handling the night. "I wish for the lights to be off."

Christine bit her bottom lip and appeared slightly hurt. "But I want to see you…"

"No light," he rasped. "Let me have tonight. It is all so hideous. I do not want light."

"You know I don't care about--"

"I know." He managed to keep his composure. "But if there is light, I will think only of Erik. And I must think of you, too." He forced out the next word. "Please." The light from the dim lamp was starting to blind him.

"All right," she finally conceded, perhaps sensing that his mind had become slightly unstable. "We'll turn it off." She clicked off the lamp. He closed the blinds and curtains to block out moonlight and streetlights, along with the next morning's sunlight. With the darkness came relief, and everything was in focus again. He turned to see Christine standing there with a blank expression; his poor, dear, beautiful wife was completely blind now. But it had to be that way. He ran back to her side and wrapped his arms around her, pressing his lips to her cheek.

She started in surprise, before embracing his maimed, skeletal body. She then stepped back and tugged on his hands, trying to get him to sit on the bed with her. "I can still see your eyes."

He sat. "Do they bother you?"

"No. I love how they glow."

"Ah."

Her fingers found the buttons again. "May I?" she asked.

He paused. "If you wish." Was it possible to want to escape from someone while also desiring to get as close as possible? The warmth in his body contrasted with a bitterness that started on his tongue and seeped into his stomach. It was elation mixed with panic and desire entwined with shame. He didn't understand any of it—just felt it all consuming and crushing him. The darkness still calmed him, though.

Her hands fumbled over the buttons, and he heard her sigh in frustration several times. He allowed his fingers to trail through her hair and brush against her cheek. They wandered down to her fragile neck, and he could feel her quickly beating pulse. Was she afraid? Or…?

Air suddenly grazed his chest, and he nearly flinched backward as she touched his bare skin. The shirt was pushed away and down his arms. She continued to feel him with gentle curiosity.

His back and shoulders were a morbid patchwork quilt of mangled skin. His chest was slightly less grotesque but still contained its share of discoloring and scars. Fortunately, she couldn't see any of it, only feel his frigid death's flesh. He tried not to panic as she ran her hands over his protruding ribs and shoulder bones that were covered only with a thin layer of sallow skin. Blindly, she pressed her lips against his collar bone.

Using all of his willpower, he forced all thoughts of himself away. He didn't want to think about his horrid self any longer…or of the wretched past--only of her. He was nothing. He didn't exist; only she did. There was only Christine now. If he didn't exist for a moment, he couldn't be ugly for that moment. Crushing all thoughts of himself, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her neck and shoulders. She was beautiful, soft, and perfect. And there were no monsters near her that night.

They shared another long, passionate kiss. With her arms still around him, she reclined and pulled him toward her. He continued to concentrate on Christine, her blue eyes…her little nose…her smile…her unmarred flesh. His hands wandered over her skin and nightgown, over her back and down to her waist, the beautiful sensation of touch further blocking himself from his own mind. Their kisses continued as more skin was exposed. She sighed. And he was not there. _He was not there! He was not there!_

"I love you," she whispered as his hands worked to remove the gown. Her head was on the pillow, and she was staring up at him with little tears in her eyes. Her smile was bright. _His_ smile. "I love you, Erik."

_Erik._

"Erik." He softly repeated his name like a curse.

And, to both his horror and relief, he was suddenly there again.

* * *

Her heart fell as he moved away and lay on the pillow beside her, disdainfully repeating his name a second time. His eyes had also disappeared. Her hands found his arms, and she traced them upwards, soon realizing that he was covering his face with his fingers. "Erik?" she asked in confusion, gently prying his hands away. The eyes appeared again. He stared up at her, and Christine wished that she could see his expression. "Are you all right?" 

"Yes."

She frowned at the clipped answer. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Is there something…hurt?"

"Hurt?"

She inhaled and quickly forced the words out. "I know that when…people are injured badly…sometimes they can't--You can tell me if something's wrong. It won't matter." Her hand rubbed his upper arm, which was about the width of her wrist. "If you can't…well, I just need to know. We'll be fine."

There was a moment of silence. The heaving laugh that escaped his throat startled her. "I would not have allowed you to marry me thinking otherwise if that were so." He laughed again, and there was a mournful quality to the rich sound. "Ah. My wife believes she married a eunuch!" He continued to chuckle.

Her face heated. "I didn't necessarily mean that!"

"There is nothing wrong," he said. "Not in that way."

"It would have been fine if there was," she murmured.

"It would not have been fine. I would not have let you marry me."

"Oh, Erik." She rubbed her palm against his chest. The skin was less damaged than on his back, cold and smooth. At one place, she could even feel his heart beating beneath her hand.

A few minutes passed. "Erik is here. I am here," he murmured, almost thoughtfully. He was staring at the wall.

"You're here," she agreed. "You're my husband."

"And I have a wife now. And she is here. As long as she…as _you_ are here, I can stay. As long as you want me, no matter how ugly I am, I can be here. Only you matter. That is how it is. I see now."

She didn't quite understand what was going on in his mind, but he seemed calm. And content with his strange revelation. After a confusing moment, she leaned over to kiss him again, hoping that the night wasn't about to end. To her delight, he turned on his side and returned her affections. His hand weakly pulled on her nightgown, his eyes more intense. Taking both hands, he pulled again. She softly laughed and removed the garment before he tore it in two. Erik was suddenly still as he stared at her.

She shifted and knew her cheeks were red. "How well can you see me?"

"Perfectly," he rasped.

"That doesn't seem fair."

"It is more than fair, my Christine."

She gave a dissatisfied grunt at the statement. Forcing away her modesty, she scooted closer to him. They remained in a tight embrace, warm skin against icy flesh. His fingers timidly wandered over her, and his chest moved with soft, rapid breaths. Her hand touched his sunken stomach, and he shuddered. "Please," she said. It was no longer about her; they needed this to move forward. "I'm yours."

He was motionless for several more seconds. Then, he turned and moved over her, and she leaned her head back into the pillow. She rested her hands flat on his back and took a deep breath. There were several moments of discomfort, some worse than others, and his protruding skeleton pressed against her skin until he found balance. Still, she managed not to shed tears, knowing that might bring him to another bout of self-hatred.

His long fingers ran over her ribs and stomach, up to her chest. She heard him exhale and softly sigh. A nonsensical syllable escaped his lips, more a song than a word. She winced and tightened her hold on him as he moved above her. Just as she began to feel something other than pressure, something good, it was all over, and he'd quickly shifted back to the side of her.

After taking several deep breaths and quickly wiping an annoying tear off her cheek, she prepared to turn around and tell him that it was just fine…that she loved him and that she was thrilled that they could have what almost every other couple had. And she was proud of him and wanted him more than anything in the world. And no one could separate them now; neither of them would ever be alone again.

Turning on her side, she couldn't see his expression. Before she could speak and reach out to him, though, Christine was yanked forward and immediately enfolded into his arms, her cheek pressed to his chest. "I love you!" He repeated this several times, his voice tear-choked and filled with disbelief. "You are my wife! And you are lovely. And you will never leave. I love you!"

She smiled and wrapped an arm around him, shifting slightly to get comfortable. "I love you, too," she said, kissing his cheek. "Thank you." He may not even have heard her; he was clinging and murmuring in what she guessed was joy and passion. It only confirmed what she had always thought: Erik _was_ like any other man, only repressed and shamed to the point where he believed he wasn't. There was no irreparable physical damage; as always, the most harm had been done to his mind.

"You like your husband," he fondly murmured into her hair, still clutching onto her. It was one of the few times that the happiness in his eyes wasn't guarded.

"I love my husband." She felt renewed peace in her heart, believing they could have everything no matter what anyone else thought.

They silently lay there together, and she pulled the thick covers over them. As with her hair, Erik seemed to have a fondness for soft things, and she'd spent a little extra money on a plushy bedspread and fluffy bath towels. He never said anything about them, but he certainly never complained. She enjoyed seeing him wrapped in comfort.

A car horn startled her right before she fell asleep.

She'd nearly forgotten that they weren't alone in the world.

* * *

It was one of the nights that he didn't sleep. He merely lay there, appreciating and loving her for hour after hour. Occasionally, he would touch her face or hair or shoulder, gently enough to keep from waking her. In the early morning hours, she finally opened her eyes, squinting to no avail. "It's so dark," she murmured. 

"It is perfect," he replied, pulling her close. Amidst her sudden kisses to his jaw and caresses, he wished for her again. She turned and allowed him the divine privilege.

The epiphany had been so simple and yet so difficult to grasp. _He_ still repulsed himself for many vile reasons, some of his own fault and others not. But as long as _she_ wanted him, as long as she was happy with him, he had reason to be there. And, somehow, he was also able to share a piece of her joy. And, every so often, the joy overtook the self-hatred. And he was happy.

After again drowning in pure bliss, he possessively wrapped his arms around her, and she scooted closer. The possessiveness was of a different nature than the paranoid desire to disembowel any male who glanced at her. It was gentler and trusting, and he merely wished that they could lie there forever, isolated from the rest of the world.

Unfortunately, Christine still rather liked the world. "When can we let in some light?" she asked after awhile, sitting up.

"But this is so much more pleasant."

"That's because you can see!"

"Very well. Let me have a moment." He rearranged himself, the bliss fading slightly. The mask was still in the living area, but he decided it wasn't necessary. The soft rustle of material indicated that she was dressing as well. "You may have your light."

After a second, she clicked on a lamp and blinked several times as her eyes adjusted. She smiled at him and blushed. Then, Christine walked to the window and glanced outside, letting in a few streaks of morning sunlight. A little ray of light managed to make its way through the blinds and landed on his left hand. He glared at it, and she stared with concern as he moved his arm.

"It won't hurt you, Erik."

Her voice was strangely serious, and he guessed that the ever-intrusive Nadir had told the story about the 'deadly sunlight.' He wryly chuckled. "I am aware of that." She closed the curtains and came to sit beside him; the little ray of light disappeared. "But if you ever wish to move to an underground cave, do tell me. I will oblige."

"Maybe someday we could have a basement, if you want." Despite his mangled face, she'd become very adept at reading his expressions. His excitement at the idea of an underground room (with carpeting and draperies and a grand piano…And Christine!) was immediately evident to her. "But only if you promise not to stay down there all the time," she added.

He grudgingly promised, still secretly determined to get her down to _his _basement on occasion. He would even decorate it for her. Satisfied, she kissed him on the cheek and pulled him to lie back down with her. They remained there for several more hours.

_He would do anything for her. _

The coming years would prove this, sometimes in the harshest of ways. Whether it was her smile or tears that held the most power over him--he could never quite say.


	3. Chapter 3

Hi, guys. I meant to get this chapter out by Valentine's Day, but school has been keeping me busy. Anyway, it's a little fluffy at spots, with a little angst for good measure, and it contains some mature references. There's nothing that graphic, though, so I'd still give it a T-rating. I wanted to take a look at all of the main characters, and so this is like three vignettes in one.

Thank you for all your kind comments. Thanks to _MadLizzy_ for looking this over. I hope you all enjoy the vignettes.

**Read and Review!!!**

Upon first seeing him at the airport, Marisol had cried, kissed, and hugged him for about ten minutes. As Gavin eagerly returned her affections and assured her that everything was just fine, he thought he might actually be off the hook. Who cared where he had been? He was alive, right? He'd rested a hand on her stomach, feeling a little burst of excitement in the center of his heart.

But, of course, Marisol wanted to know everything. On his first evening back, she sat him down on their worn couch and asked him where 'in the hell' he went. Still tired from the flight, Gavin had rubbed a palm over his eyes and hesitated, trying to avoid saying something stupid. That only made her frown widen. "Gavin? Just tell me what you were doing. For several weeks, I barely hear from you. And then suddenly you're involved in that mess over there."

"Well, there you go," he began, his mouth a little dry. "I was investigating the story. I was trying to expose _Falcon_ for what it was."

"But why did you go there? How did you even know what was going on? And don't tell me the newspaper sent you. After you left, they called back and asked if you wanted another interview since you _cancelled_ the last one." She looked more hurt than angry.

"My friend needed help," he replied, shifting. "She…was in trouble. You know, she was engaged to Raoul de Chagny, and they were both involved and in danger. I had to help."

"Christine Daae?"

"Yeah." He saw her expression twist into a knot. Gavin leaned forward and took both her hands. "Believe me. It was nothing but helping a friend in desperate need."

Marisol shook her head. "Why didn't she call the police or something? Why you? You're just an amateur journalist." Slightly stung, Gavin drew back. "Sorry," she murmured, looking down. "I didn't mean it like that. Just…"

"It's long and complicated," he replied, leaning back into the couch cushions. "I was the only one who could help them. I'm sorry. But…I had to."

"I still don't understand."

"I know." He couldn't explain everything, though. For one thing, Gavin knew that Christine and Erik might move somewhere nearby. He wasn't sure he could explain Erik's past to Marisol without her wanting to call the police. For another thing, he simply wasn't ready to talk about it. He'd seen men murdered right in front of him. He even had the occasional nightmare of being chased through London.

"Whatever happened to Christine? I don't see her in the news anymore." She eyed him closely.

Gavin paused. "She's engaged. I imagine she'll be married soon."

Marisol's face brightened slightly. "She's engaged? To Raoul de Chagny?"

"No. He's—it doesn't matter. Some other man."

"Oh. I see." Her eyes were still clouded. She picked at a loose thread in the couch.

Gavin reached over and embraced her, kissing the side of her head and running a hand through her thick, dark hair. "We'll be fine, sweetheart. That mess is almost over, and I won't go anywhere for a long time. I'm pretty sure I can find a better job now. We can buy a nicer place…get some great things for our baby. I promise that I'm not going anywhere. I love you." He felt her nod and hesitantly embrace him.

Things were quiet for the next few weeks. He never had to sleep on the couch, but their bedroom remained a little cold. Every so often, he caught his wife staring at him with uncertainty. He took her out to the dinner several times and to a highly-rated play, trying to close the gap between them.

There was one occasion where he went to help Christine and Erik rent a car after their return to the United States. As guilty as he felt, he didn't tell Marisol where he went that evening. He had the feeling that she might want to meet Christine…and Erik. And it was way too soon for that.

When he briefly saw the couple, Gavin was glad that they appeared in good spirits. Christine was glowing with a quiet happiness. And Erik silently stood there with a constant hand on her shoulder, his eyes shining with nothing short of adoration. An energy connected them--two inseparable, opposite poles. The air nearly cooled after they'd departed in the Toyota. Gavin couldn't help but wonder if it was even possible for any other couple to achieve the connection that those two had.

On some level, he knew that it wasn't possible. They were unique. But Gavin also admitted to himself that there was no way in hell he would have traded his life for Erik's.

When he returned to his apartment, Gavin found Marisol watching a televised movie, one of those female-issue ones, and took a seat close beside her. "How are you--"

"You know why I think you really went to London?" Marisol interrupted, still staring at the screen.

"What?" He sharply looked at her, wondering if she knew that he'd just met with Christine. "Why?"

"Because you can't settle down. You always have to move from one place to the next, and you want excitement. You can't stand not being part of something big."

"Well…" He scratched his head. "You're right that I like a little adventure in life. But I do want to settle down. This thing in London…it was completely unexpected. Half the time, I was scared out of my mind, afraid that I was either going to be shot or strangled. I don't really want to do anything like it again." He could still hear the _pop, pop, pop_ of necks breaking in his head.

Marisol's eyes widened, and he inwardly kicked himself for revealing that much. "You were shot at? What if you had been killed?" Her shoulders drooped. "I would have been alone with…"

He was about to say that never would have happened, but it wasn't true. So he just said, "I'm here now. I made it back with only a few scratches. And I won't take any more dangerous trips. I promise."

"All right," she whispered with a sniffle.

He wrapped his arms around her. She swallowed and relaxed against his chest with a sigh. Gavin finally realized that the thought must be frightening to her--widowed and a single mother.

If he hadn't gone to London, though, Christine, Erik and Raoul might have died. And Leonie would still be in control, terrorizing people left and right. Although Gavin would never say it to Marisol, he couldn't regret going.

A week later, they went to the doctor to find out the gender of the baby. Gavin could tell that Marisol wanted a girl. He'd be happy either way. So when the doctor said, "Congratulations. You're going to have a baby girl," Gavin grinned as his wife released a soft squeal of delight.

"I'll let you pick her name," he said as they walked out of the office holding hands.

She eagerly nodded, still smiling. "Rosalinda."

Gavin laughed; she'd obviously had it planned for awhile. "All right, then." He noticed that the glint of distrust was finally fading from her eyes.

It was two days later that Gavin got a call from a newspaper. He'd interviewed for a couple of jobs over the weeks and was debating some offers, at least feeling somewhat secure about that part of his future. The employers always asked about his adventure, and he told them enough to hold their interest. He was excited by the call until he found out how much international travel they wanted from him, including to some places that weren't exactly friendly toward foreigners. Gavin declined the offer after only a brief hesitation.

After switching on a lamp, he sat down in front of his laptop and started on the next chapter of his book. It was the one that he was nervous about, mostly because the section was one giant lie. With a yawn, he began to type.

_Even as the entire story of _Falcon _becomes public, many mysteries remain. For example, who murdered Firmin, Andre, and Lawrence? __Who was responsible for the kidnapping of Raoul de Chagny and Christine Daae? Some people have claimed in interviews that there's some sort of ghost out there. A few lucky witnesses will tell you there was a black-clad masked man wh_o _wreaked havoc on those associated with the company. The apparition supposedly possessed "eyes that looked like yellow flames" and the "clawed white hands of the Grim Reaper." _

_Sounds like a good horror movie to me. _

_As entertaining as it is to think there's some lone agent for justice out there, I find it difficult to believe. During my investigations, I found no traces of such an eerie and supernatural figure. This so-called ghost is likely another one of Falcon's_ _distractions to make themselves look like the victims. My guess is that Leonie herself had the other members of the company murdered for personal gain. The only monsters there were the owners of _Falcon

A hand on his shoulder nearly made Gavin jump out of the chair. He whirled around to see Marisol. "Jesus. I didn't even hear you come in." His heart calmed.

"That sounds nice." She nodded toward the computer screen. "And creepy."

"Ah." He chuckled and swallowed. "Well…it's just a story."_ Liar._ "I'm exaggerating to make it sound good."

"It sounds exciting. I'd read it."

"Thanks. Hopefully I'll get somewhere with it." Gavin stood. "How about if we go out for dinner? Someplace nice and expensive. You, me, and Rosy."

"_Rosy?" _

Gavin laughed. "Rose, then?"

"I guess. Poor Rosalinda is going to have a lot of nicknames, isn't she?" There was a trace of a smile on her face. "Anyway, let me go get ready. I hope I have a dress that still fits."

"I'm sure you'll look wonderful no matter what you wear."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, right. Give me a couple of months. Or years." Marisol went into their closet, and he heard the faint clink of hangers being moved.

Gavin turned and added one last sentence before switching off his computer.

_If by chance there really was a vengeful spirit out there, maybe he can finally rest in peace. _

* * *

His lawyers analyzed all of his accounts and gleefully told him that most of his assets couldn't be touched by the onrush of lawsuits. 

Had his father known that it would all come crashing down one day and secured his sons' futures? Raoul didn't know if he was grateful or disgusted.

As he watched the news from his hotel suite in London, he continued to see some of the victims come forward. Many of them had relatives who had died of cancer. A few of them were disfigured. There was a woman whose forehead was pushed in to a disturbing degree. There was one man that had no hands and another with webbed fingers. Most were from Eastern European nations where the poor were still confined to little villages. And the disfigured were outcasts.

"I think I can get you some of the earnings from the company's investments if we play this right," said one of the leading members of his legal team. The older man took off his glasses, the corners of his chapped lips turning upwards.

"No." The word came out of Raoul's mouth instantly. "I don't want _Falcon's_ wealth. Let the victims have it."

His lawyer frowned and put on his glasses. "We're talking about millions of dollars here."

"I don't care. I have enough in my trust funds. Let the victims tear _Falcon_ apart." The lawyer looked irked, but Raoul didn't care. He didn't want any more blood-stained money.

There was really only one thing in the world that he did want. Or person. And she was far gone now, likely back in the United States…maybe married. The thought of Erik touching her still made him nauseous.

As Raoul went through the motions of keeping his finances in order, he was empty. He gave a few speeches for the news, assuring the angry public that _Falcon _was no more and that Leonie would be locked away forever. He talked to government officials, along with former members of the company who had been unaware that anything illegal was occurring. As each day passed, he felt more robotic.

Finally, the loneliness got to be too much. At a meeting with former _Falcon_ employees, he met Anna, and they went to dinner at a French restaurant. She was a former vice president of finance for one of the company's Canadian branches. With her job gone, she was a little depressed.

All right. She was really depressed.

"I went to Yale, for God's sake," Anna muttered, staring into her sparkling drink as her dark blonde hair fell in loose strands at the sides of her face. "I was promoted one month before it all fell apart. I had everything—even a house on California's coast like I'd wanted since I was a kid. It's not fair! A few people screwed up, and _I'm_ paying for it. Now what am I supposed to do?"

And Raoul, of course, was also depressed. "Tell me about it," he said.

After several glasses of wine, they went to his hotel suite. He supposed they shared the same thought that it was good not to be alone for another miserable night. At least they could lose themselves for a few hours. Anna stayed for a second and a third night, too. After that, she awkwardly bid him goodbye and flew back to Ontario. Raoul wasn't upset, though. Outside of being depressed and enjoying wine, they didn't have much in common.

There were several other women in those months, all with various statuses and personalities. It wasn't that he wanted woman after woman, but none of them ever felt right. They temporarily dulled the pain, but Christine was always sitting in the back of his mind, mocking him with her beautiful smile. And the others could tell.

"No one ever sticks around," he'd said, wearily watching as Rachelle, a primary school teacher with bright red hair, began to gather her things from the floor. He'd folded his arms against his chest. "I'm starting to think there's something wrong with me."

"Wrong with you?" she asked, her eyes widening as she slipped on her high heels. "I assumed there was something wrong with _me_."

"What?"

She shrugged and looked away. "It's not like you tried to get to know me. I mean, I had a great night. But…isn't that all you wanted? A fun night?"

He unfolded his arms and took a step toward her, a heavy weight crushing his heart. "I'm not like that."

Rachelle shrugged again, folding her coat over her arms. "Why shouldn't you be? I'm just a silly teacher. I wasn't expecting anything else. But I may brag to my friends that I was with _the_ Raoul de Chagny..." She leaned forward, eyes twinkling. "Daphne—that's the music teacher—she's going to be _so_ jealous. She thinks you're adorable. She's just going to die when I tell her this."

He stepped back, the heavy weight sinking down into his stomach. "So you're just using me?"

Rachelle weakly laughed and grabbed her purse. "Darling, I think we used each other."

Raoul knew she was right.

He felt the worst about a girl named Teresa. She was blonde, sweet, and fairly docile. In a sense, Teresa reminded him a little of how Christine had been when they first became engaged. He remained with her for a week only because of that reason.

As he was kissing her one evening, Raoul had looked into her eyes. They were hazel. Hazel and not blue. And this upset him.

Knowing that it would never work, Raoul had quickly ended it. Teresa had left the room in tears despite his reassurances that it had nothing to do with her.

As the loose ends of his financial matters were tied up, Raoul began to make plans to return to the United States. He was growing tired of London weather and wanted to clear his head in a less populated area. Maybe he would buy a house in southern Florida and take a well-needed vacation.

He'd gone to a final meeting with some former executives and lawyers to discuss plans for the upcoming year. If there was anything left after the lawsuits, what would they do with it? What would become of all the plants and the former employees? Some of _Falcon's_ businesses had been legitimate, and _Falcon _had been the supplier of many companies who used adhesives, plastics, and other compounds in their manufacturing processes. Now there were product shortages. Raoul finally understood the difficult decisions that his father had faced. Whether _Falcon_ lived or died, people's lives were destroyed.

As he was leaving the building complex, he spotted a television screen in the lobby. The newscasters were talking about _Falcon _and showing the victims again. They were describing how the man with no hands had used his feet and toes to get by in life, depending on relatives whenever he needed help. The woman with the pushed in forehead lived in poverty with two children; her husband had died six years ago of liver cancer. A six year old boy with only a tiny bump for a nose was also shown this time, clinging to his grandmother's hand.

Raoul paused and inhaled, feeling a lump form in the pit of his stomach. Before he left, he went to a bank inside the building and wrote a check to give the victims five hundred thousand dollars from his untouchable funds. He'd have to track the money to ensure no greedy lawyers got their hands on it.

After he was finished, he went directly to a restaurant and pub that served moderately priced seafood. He met Caroline there, an outspoken woman who managed a clothing store. And for the evening, the pain was numbed again.

But just for the evening.

* * *

Christine didn't know where Erik had gotten a deck of cards, but he was eager to provide entertainment on the first day of their honeymoon. After he'd performed a few magic tricks, she gently took the cards and set them on the coffee table. That slightly desperate glint had entered his eyes, and she wanted it to go away. She scooted closer, put both hands on his cheeks, and kissed him. Their first night together had demolished another one of his carefully constructed barriers. 

"Do you want anything?" he asked, letting his fingers run through her hair. "I have begun to recall more of the crafts and tricks I learned in India. I will share them with you."

"I'd like to see them."

"What else do you want? _My_ wife should have everything that she desires."

"Well…" She smiled, hoping it wouldn't be too soon. Christine reached for a newspaper and turned it to the entertainment section. "Pick a movie," she said, handing it to him. The idea had been stuck in her head ever since she and Erik had stood on the tiny balcony in London.

He stared down at it, his fingers wrapping around the edges. His mouth twitched. "I…do not care."

She laughed. "Well, which one sounds good to you?"

"I do not know. You may decide."

"Fine. We'll see this one." Christine pointed and read the little caption aloud. "It's two and a half hours of comedy and heartwarming romance that the whole family can enjoy." Of course, she was kidding. The last thing that Erik wanted to see was beautiful people caught up in stupid misunderstandings.

His expression of revulsion almost made her laugh. "Perhaps I will choose the movie."

To her slight relief, he skipped over the featured horror film and chose a psychological drama about a schizophrenic. It wasn't exactly uplifting, but she got the feeling that Erik wasn't quite ready for _uplifting_.

That evening, she put on a nice skirt and a little makeup for their honeymoon festivity, giddiness still making her skin tingle. Throughout the afternoon, she could see Erik folding and unfolding his hands, curling and uncurling his fingers. "Are you okay going?" she finally asked after a dinner of turkey subs.

"I am fine," he slowly replied. "So long as we remain undisturbed."

She couldn't really make that promise. But it did turn out to be a wonderfully uneventful evening. She bought the tickets as Erik stood to the side in a dark corner. The ticket taker was preoccupied with a female friend and barely noticed as Christine handed him the tickets and walked by. The movie had been out for several months, and only a few other people were in the theater, most of them middle-aged or elderly couples. She and Erik sat in a far-right corner and remained there undisturbed. After sitting through half the movie looking ready to pounce on something, Erik finally relaxed and half-watched. She took his hand and squeezed his fingers, feeling her own heart calm.

"Did you like it?" she asked as they walked through a side exit. The night was warm. Laughter echoed in the distance.

"It was adequate," he replied, his eyes searching their surroundings. "Better than the last one. With the little monster."

"I told you that it was an alien, Erik."

"It was still repulsive. Even more so than I am."

She smiled and shook her head, resting her cheek on his arm. "Thank you for taking me."

He said nothing in reply, but his eyes became content.

It was late when they arrived home, and Erik immediately carried her to bed. With a blush, she gently attempted to guide his hands and slow the night down. Erik still didn't quite understand, but the look of joy in his eager eyes made her hesitant to explain. She supposed they had years to get it right. And the feel of his arms around her bare back as she drifted to sleep made her happy enough to forget. The sound of his strong heartbeat and steady breath was the lullaby she wanted to hear for the rest of her life.

Their success at the movies encouraged her to continue their pattern of going out into public. "It's supposed to be nice this evening," she began the following morning, watching as he adjusted the strings on his violin. He wished to get her singing regularly again. "We should go to the beach. Just for a little while."

Erik looked up. After only a brief hesitation, he agreed to take her.

Unfortunately, it wasn't as uneventful as their night at the movies. She had expected the beach to be empty, but plenty of people were walking along the shores. Some teenagers were having a party with a barbeque, and children were playing in the sand. The sun had almost set, though, and she hoped that no one would notice them. Christine could feel Erik's tension as she took a slow step toward the ocean. It was highly doubtful that she could get her husband to run barefoot with her into the water and play a splashing game. Still, at least she had gotten him there.

There was evidently still enough light for others to see them. A few people, mostly kids and teenagers, did pause and glance at Erik with curiosity. His black suit and mask made him stand out, even if it was too dark to see his pale skin. Christine could feel him tighten his hold on her hand, and she decided that they could return on a night when it was less crowded. "We can go if you want," she murmured, turning to head for the car.

"Let us." His voice was at a whisper.

Just as they started to walk back up the hill and toward the parking lot, two teenage boys passed and looked them over with glazed eyes. One said, "Woah. Nice mask, dude." The kid was obviously half-drunk, but Erik still appeared ready to grab him by the throat. His yellow eyes were inflamed as the two guys lumbered away without a clue. One boy laughed as he nearly tumbled into the sand.

"Ignore him," she muttered. "He doesn't know what he's saying."

"I wish to rip off his very large ears."

"He's just a stupid boy," she replied. "He'll probably pass out soon." Christine tugged on her love's hand. Finally, Erik turned and followed her, muttering beneath his breath.

It was mainly the black mask that drew attention. If Erik had been walking around in bandages or a surgical mask, most people would have given him a glance of sympathy and moved on. The black mask was almost decorative, though. For all anyone knew, Erik was an eccentric artist.

Feeling responsible for his disturbed eyes and tense muscles, she sat down on the bed with him when they arrived home. "Erik." She took his hands and hoped that nothing she said came out hurtful. "If you wore a mask that was the same color as your skin, it would help."

"People will always stare. It is not merely my face; my entire body is a monstrosity. Perhaps it is best if I remain here. And you may go out. I do not wish to shame you."

"I'm not ashamed!" She was hurt that he even thought that. "I'll never be ashamed of you. I just thought you'd be more comfortable with another mask. The black mask draws attention because…well…people find it interesting, I think. A lot of them aren't even trying to be mean. I just…"

"You what?"

"I like going out with you. I don't want to stop."

"They will always stare."

She shook her head. "I don't care if they stare. But maybe another mask would get them to leave us alone." She touched the faded sores on his face. "Maybe it would be more comfortable for you, too."

He closed his eyes. "It may take funds to obtain such a specialized mask."

"We have some money. And I'm going to get a job soon. I'll start applying tomorrow."

The corner of his mobile lip turned downwards. "I do not wish you to do so."

"We'll be fine." She kissed his forehead and nuzzled his shoulder.

"An honest living can be highly overrated."

She drew back. "Erik!"

His fingers stroked her cheek. "I will do nothing to alarm you. But I—you are meant to shine. The world should be at your feet. I have known that since I first heard you." His eyes became distant.

"Maybe I'm not meant to have a singing career," she softly replied. "But I'm happy like this. People have to work and support themselves. That's what life is. We'll be fine."

"But you are special."

Christine intensely protested this statement, but Erik refused to believe any differently. Finally, she just said, "We're going to get you a better mask no matter what we have to do. You deserve it." And that was the end of the conversation.

It was one of the few nights that Erik fell asleep before she did, his cheek resting on her head. He always held onto her tightly, as though he was afraid she might disappear during the night. Christine knew that she was special--but not for the reasons that Erik thought.

She was special because she was loved so much.

She only prayed that Erik didn't go to…unusual measures to prove his love.


	4. Chapter 4

Sorry for the infrequent updates, guys. This is my very last semester of college, and it stays pretty busy around here. Spring break is in two weeks, and I'll try to get the next vignette up by then.

This chapter will kind of mark a turning point for our beloved E/C. Thank you all for your kind comments. Thanks to _MadLizzy _for her continuous help.

**Read and Review!!!**

His heart clenched when Christine announced that she was going to her first interview. Dressed in a grey skirt, loose white blouse, and grey jacket, his angel appeared bland and colorless. Her hair was wrapped in a tight bun, and her shoes were narrow and black. He had the urge rip the stale clothing off of her and shred it into tiny pieces. But then she would be angry with him.

"It won't be forever," she stated, kissing his cheek and running a hand through his sparse hair. She gathered up her purse and glanced at herself in the mirror, seeming satisfied. "Just until we settle in and decide what we both want to do. I have to have a job, though."

"I could get funds," he murmured, warily watching her.

She looked at him. "How?"

"The bank down the street has extremely lax security. They are practically requesting that I rob them tonight. No one would be harmed. At least no one of importance."

His wife shook her head and smiled. "I'll be back soon." His heart fell a little more after she was gone. They'd rarely been separated over the last several months, and he'd been fairly sane for that entire period.

For awhile, he sat on the couch and stared at the wall. A fly buzzed near the window, and he glared at it. Although he remained sane, he could feel his mind drifting in unwanted directions. The silence and solitude began to make him edgy. He finally arose and dove into his music, able to get lost in the notes and forget that he was alone.

He met her at the door when she returned two hours later carrying a brown paper sack. She set it down on the coffee table and hugged him, resting her cheek against his chest as though she were tired.

"How was the affair?" he enquired, feeling his mind and heart calm again.

She shrugged. "Mm. All right, I guess. We'll see."

"No matter. There is still the bank."

"No banks, Erik."

That evening, they took a walk together in an older part of the city that been renovated with antique and novelty shops. He stayed to the shadows and was able to relax a bit, watching her as she looked in the store windows. Although he told her she could have whatever she desired, Christine told him she wanted nothing. At his loving coaxing, she finally purchased a caramel apple for herself and a square of chocolate for him.

The only object that Christine did still talk of buying was a new mask, and any mention of it caused him to twitch. Perhaps she was unaware of the complications involved in getting one molded to fit the shape of his face. Namely, he would not let anyone see or touch him to make a mold of his features. The thought of anyone besides Christine making contact with his skin repulsed him.

Three interviews and two weeks later, she'd found a permanent place of work at an insurance company. When the call came one afternoon, she beamed. After hanging up the phone, she ran up to him in triumph and cried, "I got it!" Although he embraced her, it was difficult for him to share her enthusiasm. He still despised the idea of her working in a dreary office for some idiot who did not appreciate her talents. Or for some wretch who became far too interested in her. He'd have to kill the latter.

Christine belonged on a stage, her divine voice ringing out for the world to hear and worship. Christine deserved the world.

And yet he could do nothing to prevent the events from going forward. She would become upset if he forbade her from working, and pride was evident in her eyes as she told him the details of her job. Pathetic creature that he was, he merely stood there and nodded.

Christine ran out to an Italian restaurant and obtained food for them to celebrate, telling the chefs to add extra flavor to his cuisine. The tomato sauce ended up being a bit too salty for even him. The cheesecake with strawberry topping was sweet and easy for him to chew; he marked it down as one of his favored foods on a very short list. The tasty dessert still did not numb his growing distress with his wife's situation.

Dressed in black slacks and a grey sweater, she prepared to leave for work the next day. "How do I look?" she asked, turning around in a circle in front of him.

It would take years before he realized that there were articles written about this specific question. Males had to take care with the answer because females were fickle when it came to honesty. Of course, he knew little about the subject. "As though you are attending a funeral," he replied with an outward gesture of his left hand. She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "It makes you seem pale and drawn. Like a wilted flower. And--"

"All right," she interrupted. "I get the point. But I have to dress like this. It's…professional." She softly grunted as she straightened her collar.

"Whoever said so should be strung up by their smallest fingers and tortured with arachnids." He had never had the opportunity to do that to anyone, although he had considered it for Oliver.

She grimaced and then softly laughed, attempting to smooth out her clothing one last time. "There is no one in the world like you," she fondly murmured, coming up to kiss him goodbye. When she started to draw back, he refused to release her. Christine hugged him again and then began a half-hearted struggle against his tight grasp, which she quickly lost. "I'm going to be late." She stopped fighting and leaned into him. "Please. Let me do this for us. Just to give us a start."

He reluctantly released her.

"Wish me luck," she said with a nervous smile.

"I wish for nothing but your happiness," he replied as she left.

Again, he was able to place himself in the protective cocoon of his music. Without music, he would not have survived those months after escaping prison. Even with it, he had been insane, but composing had allowed him to retain a small fraction of his mind. It provided a point of focus and a conduit for his hatred. Now the combination of music and the constant sight of his wedding ring kept him sane. She would be back.

Indeed, Christine returned that night with dinner and an entire box of cheesecake. He had not said anything about enjoying the dessert; she'd simply been able to tell. Her eyes were weary as she removed her shoes, but she held her head high. "Well…I think it'll be fine," she said, setting everything on the kitchen table and pushing a strand of hair out of her face. "I mostly just take phone calls and keep track of records. Nothing too hard. The boss isn't even there half the time." She shrugged and looked up at him. "What'd you do today?"

"Nothing of importance."

She gently kissed his jaw. "You must have done something." Her gaze drifted to the stack of papers on the coffee table. "Did you compose?"

"A bit."

Her face brightened. "Something new?"

"I…do not know. I merely write notes. It is not important." He had tried to get back to his original masterpiece--one giant symphony of despair, hatred, and loneliness. He was having a difficult time perfectly capturing those feelings within the music now.

She seemed to sense that he didn't want to talk about it. "All right. Well…let's eat."

It was not that he meant to be cold with her. Something bitter had lodged itself in the middle of his chest, and he found himself feeling more useless by the moment.

They went to bed soon after a dinner. The nights were still his favorite times. Perfection was lying with her in the warmth, softness, and darkness, not fretting over the next day. He could even pretend he was not monstrous because she could not see him. He kissed and caressed her, wordlessly saying that he was not upset with her. It was never her, always him. She stayed close and seemed to understand.

The days began to follow a similar pattern. When Christine did not go to her prison, they would venture out together in the evenings. He once discovered a play in the newspaper and offered it as a suggestion for the weekend. She became excited, and he made it a point to look for other forms of entertainment that she would enjoy…and where no one could see him.

She also bought a small television for their living area. At first, he was annoyed with the talking box, but Christine insisted that she'd always had one. It had been her "babysitter" during youth. He soon realized that there were benefits to the contraption. In the evenings after supper, she pulled him to lie on the couch with her, turning the channel to some inane sitcom at a low volume. She would softly tell him about her day or what she wanted to do over the weekend. He decided that the television could stay.

Despite Christine's job, the warmth and love remained. When she was with him, he felt the tingle of joy in his veins and wanted her as near as possible. Still, he was frustrated by their situation and the thought of her trapped behind some desk each day, taking orders from a moron. It ate at the back of his mind, and he felt helpless to fix it.

And he despised feeling helpless.

On one day, he could immediately sense that she was upset when she came home. "What is wrong?" he asked, noticing her frown and the wrinkle in her lovely forehead.

"Oh." She shook her head and slipped off her shoes. "It's not important. Just something stupid at work."

"Tell me."

Christine hesitated and looked up at him. "Some customer yelled at me over the phone about something that wasn't even my fault. I don't even know what he was talking about. I couldn't hang up on him without getting trouble. He screamed at me for like ten minutes."

His fingers curled. "What is his address?"

"What are you going to do?"

"Kill him."

"His address is 4837…" She tapered off, obviously playing with him. "It's all right. It was just one of those days."

"You should not be working there," he muttered, wishing that she would have given him the real address.

"It's not so bad," she replied. "Tomorrow will be better."

The evening progressed as it normally did. When she hopped up from the couch and announced that she was ready for bed, he slowly stood. His heart continued to feel heavy. "I think I will take a walk. I feel the need for air…"

"Oh. Do you want me to come with you?"

"You appear tired. Rest. I will return very soon."

She hesitated. "You're not really going to kill that customer--"

A sharp laugh escaped his throat. "No. You still think that I would…Oh, it does not matter. Perhaps I would."

She reached out a hand as guilt streamed into her eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't really think you would do that. You just usually don't want to go out by yourself."

"I merely need to clear my head." He strode toward the door.

"I'm sorry," she repeated behind him. "I shouldn't have said it."

"It is no matter. Sleep, my love. I will be back soon." He went out the front door and felt warm air brush against his skin. The faint sounds of traffic and laughter came from the distance. A few families and couples were still out, sitting under their porch lights or strolling down the sidewalk. Several children were playing with colored chalk in a driveway. The nearby restaurants were still open, and people emerged from the bright insides, talking and laughing loudly.

If they had known a murderous monster lived nearby, their façade of suburban innocence would have vanished, and they would have formed a lynch mob.

He headed toward the more run-down side of the city, where the buildings and streets were crumbling and half the streetlights were out. The sound of booming car radios and yelling assaulted his ears as shady men roamed the streets holding paper sacks. Of course, he was probably the shadiest of them all. He crawled through shadows to examine the territory, watching as back-alley deals were made.

Within a matter of weeks, he could have half the thugs in the city working for him. The games and manipulations needed to take control were second nature for someone with his looks and talents. There was power and wealth to be found within the black markets; he could have bought her anything she asked for.

It was likely that he could become intimidating enough to influence the entertainment industry. He could ensure she sung on the most world's most famous stages, and no one would dare touch or insult her. They would be invincible.

He also knew that murder would be inevitable, though. Someone would challenge his authority in the underworld. And what choice would he have but to eliminate his enemies? That was simply how the game was played.

For the thrill of it, he jumped out of the shadows and scared one of the passing thugs. The hooded man jumped back a foot, shouted a curse, and grappled into his coat for a weapon. After failing to produce anything, he ran in the opposite direction with his package tucked under his arm.

_He_ followed the idiot for a short distance and heard him tell a friend that there was some "freaky crap goin' on back there."

"Think it's one of Jimmy's guys?" asked the friend.

"If that's what Jimmy's got workin' for him now, we're screwed. The bastard didn't even look human." The man glanced to both sides. "Let's get the hell out of here." They scrambled away together.

_Too simple._

Christine could live as a queen.

_Queen of the Underworld._

It was nearing midnight, and he already missed lying beside her and holding her in his arms. His heart ached to return to her. If only she could understand that this was the only way he could provide for her. This was all he could offer her. He took off his mask and pressed his forehead against the cool bricks. "Help me," he muttered to no one but the rats.

After a minute, he headed home, casting a steely glance toward the closed bank. Still, he passed it and went directly to his apartment. Once inside, he hesitated, feeling unfit to enter their bedroom. A dim light flipped on. "Erik?" Her soft voice came from the room. "Is that you? Are you okay?" He slowly walked inside to see her sitting up in bed, wearing a satin nightgown as her hair fell around her shoulders, framing her face in gold.

"I am fine," he replied. "I merely walked. It was extremely refreshing." Something stung at his heart as he removed the jacket of his suit and reclined beside her. He didn't untie his mask until the lights were off.

Christine scooted closer and wrapped an arm around him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "I missed you," she murmured before falling asleep.

Two nights later, he took the same concrete path into the underworld, again telling his beloved that it was good for his mind if he could occasionally leave the apartment. He scouted out territory, attempting to determine the easiest way to make himself known and feared. A blackness crept into his head, similar to the fog that he had entered when going on a vengeance spree.

This time, though, something opposed the fog. Another part of his mind fought for sanity and reason, and his heart ached with the knowledge that he was deceiving her. Still, this was the only way he could care for her. He was born to be a criminal; even his mother had known that—known that he was a sin. But that didn't mean he was incapable of love and devotion. He did all of this out of love for her. All he wanted was for her happiness!

Confusion overcame him, nearly making him ill. He could feel the lasso pressing against his pocket, tempting him. Continuing to walk forward, he gazed around as though in search of an answer to his dilemma. A combination of sinister characters and disoriented vagrants wandered around in the darkness. One of the well-dressed men would likely lead him in the most profitable direction.

A soft shriek caused him to whirl around. A woman in a revealing purple dress and a man in an expensive navy suit were standing near the entrance to a shoddy bar. "I said I was sorry!" the woman yelped. The man roughly slapped her, sending her to her knees on the asphalt. She sobbed and curled into a ball as the man strutted away, counting a handful of money.

_He _turned and left the area, feeling even more lost within himself. Christine could never be a part of _that _world She would have to remain oblivious to and separated from his activities. But that would mean continuously lying to her. Still, he had to keep her safe. He panicked as he bolted to his apartment and locked the door behind him.

Again, the light turned on in their room. She left the bedroom and came to meet him at the front door. With one glance at his eyes, she frowned. "Erik! Are you okay? What happened? Where were you?"

He did not get close to her. She would remove his mask, and he felt the need for it. "I am fine," he gently replied, keeping his voice steady. "I merely took a walk around the city."

"What's going on?" she asked, taking a few steps toward him. Her eyes narrowed.

"Nothing."

"You're shaking. Tell me what's wrong."

"I needed to support you," he muttered, cornered now.

Her eyes widened. "You…What do you mean?"

"Nothing."

She came closer and gently took his hand, eyeing him. "Let's go to bed, Erik."

He entwined their fingers together and allowed her to guide him into their bedroom, finding solace in her touch. "Yes. We will do that now."

She took a seat on the bed. He continued to stand, turning his back toward her and closing his eyes.

"Erik? Where did you go?" she asked again. "You need to tell me, no matter what it is."

"As I said, I wished to…support you."

"How?" Her voice was steady, but he sensed her tension.

"Erik can do many things for people," he said. "Erik is good at what he does."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing." He finally turned to look at her.

"Did you--" She inhaled, and he hated the sudden distress on her face. "Did you…steal something?"

"Erik did nothing," he repeated. "Only considered it…and pondered…There are many ways to make a profit. And you could have whatever you wished. Anything you asked for. I promise."

"You're talking about committing crimes, aren't you? Erik. You can't do those things. Why would you want to?"

"To support you."

"But you can't do that by stealing."

In frustration, he felt like throwing something across the room and watching it shatter against the wall. The only available items were a few antique figurines from Christine's youth, and he did not want to make her sad by breaking them. He tugged at his own sparse hair instead, later realizing how pathetic that must have looked. "You will not let Erik do the only things he can do!" he exclaimed.

" It's theft! And drug dealing! And God knows what else! It's wrong!"

"Fine. I could be a freak in a traveling carnival."

"No…"

"It is honest work. There is nothing illegal about making people pay a price to gawk at me. Why should they get to do it for free, eh?" He was being cruel now. And it came from self-hatred more than anything else.

She buried her face in her hands and took a deep breath before looking him straight in the eye. "What do you want me to say? I don't—I can't say that it's okay for you to commit crimes. I can't! I don't want to live like that."

"I can do nothing else," he muttered, staring at the ground. "Erik is useless."

"But that's not true!" she protested. "Do you know how much some people would love to sing and play an instrument as well as you do? You're the smartest person I've ever met in my life. I think you could do anything if you wanted to."

"You overestimate me."

"I do not!"

"What if you do?" His voice shook. "What if I am always nothing to you?" He was afraid of her. After all the horrors and dangers he had faced in his lifetime, Christine suddenly frightened him more than anything. When no one else was able to defeat him, his wife could destroy him with two words, and there would be nothing that he could do. _I'm leaving._

"I don't overestimate you," she replied. "You saved the lives of my friends. You let the two horrible people who destroyed your life live in the end. You go out with me now. You're gentle…." A tear fell down her cheek; she quickly wiped it away. "And, until tonight, you haven't done anything since London…."

"I did nothing tonight." He was suddenly grateful that he hadn't. "I swear."

"Then I didn't overestimate you," she softly replied, lying back onto the pillow. She turned on her side to examine him. "Is there something you want that you think we can't afford?" she asked after a moment. "Tell me. We'll figure something out."

"I want nothing except for you to have everything."

"But I don't need anything."

"You should still have everything."

Christine sighed. "I understand you want to do something. I thought maybe you'd like some time to heal and rest first. But whenever you want to find a job or even a hobby, I want you to. You're not a prisoner here, Erik. You can do anything. Except—"

"Murder, kidnapping, theft, extortion, bribery, and assault," he finished, looking down at her. He suddenly felt ashamed. "Perhaps not arson, either."

"Probably not arson, either," she agreed with a choked laugh. Her expression became serious again. "I can't live like that. We would live in fear all the time if you did those things. It would be like London again…."

"I know," he whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed. "I know. I am wretched."

"You're not wretched. I love you. I get through work each day by knowing that I get to come home and be with you."

"Christine." It was more a plea than anything.

"We're both fine now," she continued. "When you're ready, you'll find something that you like to do. It may take time. But…I know you can do whatever you set your mind to."

He said nothing, not daring to contradict her or agree with her. The bed shifted as she rolled onto her back. He finally untied his mask and rested beside her. His skin was sore from wearing the damned porcelain for too long.

After a moment, he took her hand. She squeezed his fingers and clicked off the lamp. They slept.

The next day, as she was readying herself for work, he said, "Leave money. I will obtain dinner tonight. Somehow."

She looked at him, obviously surprised. "Are you sure? It's not a problem for me to grab something on the way home."

"I will obtain dinner," he repeated.

She nodded. "All right. I'll leave you some money on the table." Christine gave him another curious glance before she left. After last night, he supposed that she had reason to be suspicious.

But his intentions were pure. He wanted to do something normal for her.

He had no idea how to cook anything decent. And he could not walk around in broad daylight looking for food. And there were no deer nearby that he could hunt and roast over a fire.

That left delivery.

He called in an order at a medium-priced steak restaurant. "You will give me two well-done number threes," he commanded into the telephone. "And you will deliver them to my house." The employee on the other end did not argue with him. When the delivery _boy_ knocked at the door, _he _opened it just enough to slide his bony arm through with the money in hand. "Leave the food on the porch," he quietly commanded.

The boy stared with wide eyes and took a step backward. "All right…sir." He slowly set the food down. With a slightly shaking hand, the boy grabbed the money and quickly walked back to his car.

After all was clear, he stepped outside, grabbed the bags off the pavement, and closed the door. He spread the food out on the kitchen table, content to see that they had not ruined his order. The last thing he wished to do was call the boy back to _his _apartment.

When Christine came home, she immediately glanced toward the kitchen. "I promise there are no bodies in there," he stated. "Oddly, cannibalism has never sounded appealing to me."

"That's good to hear," she replied, giving him a half-smile as she walked into the kitchen. Seeing ordinary cartons of food, she grinned and ran back to him. No words were exchanged as they embraced. To say too much about it would have been patronizing.

She did tease him once that evening. "No cake?" Christine asked as she started to clean up their plates.

"Erik deserves no dessert after his display of idiocy last night," he said.

"Well, we may just have to get _Erik_ some dessert this weekend anyway."

"Will you sing this weekend?" he asked. "You must never stop. You must sing forever."

"I will," she replied, looking at her hands. "Just…don't expect me to go that far with it."

"I do not overestimate you."

She looked at him, perhaps realizing that he'd used her own words against her. "Now that's not fair," she said with a little scowl.

"But it is very fair."

She unsuccessfully attempted to hide her smile. "I'll sing for you. But maybe only for you."

"We will see," he replied as they headed for the living area. He refused to leave her side for the rest of the evening.

The impending sense of doom that had followed him since prison finally began to fade in those utterly ordinary hours. It was the first time that he thought that maybe…that possibly…that perhaps everything could be somewhat…_fine._ Perhaps it was not all about to come crashing down upon him at any moment.

And she believed in him.


	5. Chapter 5

Hi, everyone. Thank you so much for your kind feedback. I'm glad that so many of you are enjoying these little vignettes.

This is probably one of the softer and sweeter vignettes that I'll ever write. **This is also a fairly mature chapter, so feel free to skip it.** Nothing too descriptive, though. And I do hope that it comes off as more than just fluff. The next vignettes, however, will be more serious.

For those who read it, I hope you enjoy the chapter. And a big thank you to _MadLizzy _for her suggestions.

**Read and Review!!**

There were times when Christine pretended to be braver than she actually felt. On some days, she didn't even think about being the more stable one. It was only when Erik panicked (or suddenly decided that he wanted to take up crime again) that she wasn't always sure what to say or do.

Raoul had always been the strong one—the rock--when they were together. She'd sobbed onto his shoulder more than a few times and had several attacks of hysteria over the death of her father. He'd always held her and told her that the pain would pass with time, never acting annoyed by the fact that she was an emotional mess. After several months had passed, she'd finally begun to believe him.

They'd gone up to the Appalachian Mountains for an autumn weekend and stayed in a cozy little lodge. The weather had been rainy before they arrived, leaving the leaf-covered ground slick and filled with puddles. As she was trying to open a water bottle while climbing up a hill, Christine had tripped and fallen into the mud. Raoul had tried to help her up with one hand and had fallen into the puddle, splashing the dirty water onto both of them. A giant blob of mud had landed on his nose and cheeks, dripping onto his white polo shirt, and he had sat there blinking in slight disbelief.

She'd started laughing hysterically, cathartic tears running down her dirty cheeks. He'd laughed, too, and they'd shakily stood together and trudged back to the lodge. It was the moment that she realized her father's death wouldn't destroy her…that she could be happy again in time.

Her brief bout of depression was nothing compared to the horrors of Erik's life. Still, she had to believe that her husband would eventually reach that day when he embraced the future and stopped cursing the past. Until that time came, she would have to be stronger, even if it sometimes meant hiding her own fears.

These were her thoughts as she folded laundry in their bedroom on a late Saturday afternoon. It was the weekend after Erik had considered resuming his life of crime, and she was still shaken up from that disturbing evening. After how far they had come together…how much they had been through in the last year…the thought that he might want to return to that lifestyle nearly broke her heart. When she left for work the day following Erik's outburst, Christine had sat in the overheated car and sobbed for a few minutes. And then she had spent another ten minutes trying to get rid of her puffy eyes.

Thankfully, outside of taking a short walk with her, Erik didn't go out at night for the rest of the week. He stayed at her side and held her in the evenings. He even ordered food for a second time, including a slice of chocolate cake with white icing just for her. Her hope was slowly replenished.

Before folding the rest of the laundry, she opened the blinds to let a little sunlight inside, knowing that Erik would close them when it was time for bed. He still refused to let her see any part of him outside of his hands and face. Several times, she had caught sight of his long, pale feet and toes. She found them rather cute but didn't dare tell Erik that.

Christine smiled to herself as she matched his dark socks together. During their first month in the apartment, he'd actually attempted to hide his laundry from her. After noticing that she never saw his dirty clothing, Christine had searched the house to no avail. Finally, she'd given up and asked him outright.

"It is no matter," he'd replied, with a wave of his hand.

"But I might as well do your clothes with mine," she protested. "It'll save water, and it's no trouble."

"But you do not need to."

"Why? I'm happy to do your laundry with mine."

"But you do not need to."

She'd shaken her head in frustration. "Can't I please have your clothing? It's no trouble."

"Do not worry."

"Erik! Let me do your laundry!" She'd turned a little red; the neighbors had probably heard her.

He'd stared at her with his head tilted to the right. "No one has ever really…not since my…it is…The clothing touched me." Erik had looked momentarily confused by his own words. He tapped his fingers on the arm of the sofa and looked at the floor in thought. "But you touch me, don't you? Yes. So I suppose you will not mind."

"I'm happy to do your laundry," she'd replied, her voice softer.

He'd stood and pulled his clothing out of a tiny pantry. It was all nicely folded into a strangely compact black ball. She'd kissed his cheek in gratitude, and he'd wandered off to the living area with a peaceful expression. To her dismay, the tags said that his suits were dry-clean. After her noisy fuss, Christine had decided not to say anything. She'd taken them to the cleaners on her way to work and then bought Erik machine-wash clothing. Thankfully, he'd found them acceptable.

Strange little things like that also gave her hope.

Erik wandered into the bedroom as she folded the last few washcloths. He silently watched her work for a moment, and she smiled.

"You said you would sing this weekend," he stated after a moment, his voice hopeful.

"I did," she replied. "I will."

"This evening you will?"

She'd been catching up on some housework throughout the day but still had a little energy. She glanced out the window. "Are the neighbors gone?"

"Yes. They are. Although they play their wretched car stereo so loudly that it is damn well time they heard what true music is."

Christine laughed. Their neighbors were actually a middle-aged couple who listened to oldies and country rock. Their music wasn't that loud, but Erik seemed to have sensitive ears. "All right. I'll give it a try, then. If anyone complains, we'll go somewhere else."

"If anyone complains, I will take _them _somewhere else." His eyes softened, and he leaned back onto his heels as though trying to take a less aggressive stance. "Come. Please. You will sing tonight for me as you said you would. I have waited all week to hear you." He spoke in a tone of voice that made her want to follow him anywhere, and she felt her shoulders relax as they went into the living area.

As they went through the beginning warm-ups, keeping to a lower volume, Christine realized how much she'd missed singing. The realities of life had taken precedent over everything else, and she was severely out of practice, barely able to sing a soubrette piece. Erik corrected her throughout the lesson but was never harsh or sarcastic. The muscles in his face were relaxed, and his eyes shone with delight. The balance of power also shifted slightly when she sang for him. Erik was the wise teacher, and she was the flawed student. He was right; they could never let music go. Even if it no longer composed their entire lives, it was essential to their wellbeing.

At some point, she stopped trying to sing and merely listened to him play, watching his shifting fingers and the rapid movement of the bow. He indulged her, keeping his concentration on the polished instrument.

"Do you still have your masterpiece?" she asked when he was finished, looking at her husband with intense admiration. "The one you were working on way back…? _Don Juan_?"

He hesitated. "Yes. But I do not work on it often now."

"Will you play part of it?" When she'd first spotted the music at the house by the graveyard, he'd harshly told her that she couldn't hear it.

"It is not pleasant," he replied. "You will not like it. It is a sort of nightmare."

"Please play a little. I've always been curious about it."

"You cannot hate me over it. Most of it was written years ago."

"I'm not going to hate you over your music, Erik. I'm only curious."

"Curious, are you? Yes, of course you are. Fine. I will play it. But you must tell me if you become ill." He paused for several seconds as though gathering his thoughts. And then he placed the violin at his shoulder and began to play, the muscles in his face tightening and his eyes becoming intense.

It _was _shocking. Living in a lower middle-class neighborhood and going to public schools, she'd been exposed to most of the music out there. She was no stranger to songs that consisted of screaming and high-pitched electric guitars. Erik's masterpiece was still hard to take in, though. Half of the composition made her want to cover her ears in pain, and the other half was strangely alluring and hypnotic. If he _had_ played it during their first encounters, she probably would have run out of the room. As his wife and lover, she could listen to the music with morbid fascination and appreciation for her husband's talents.

Erik finally stopped in the middle of the piece and stared at her. He appeared confused for a moment and then quickly set down the violin. "Are you ill?" he asked. "I warned you of it. It is a horrible thing, no? Do you wish me to get water?"

"No." She blinked a few times, her heart beating quickly. "I'm fine. But that was…I'm not sure what it was. When did you start writing it?"

"I began it during prison with half a pencil and a piece of moldy cardboard. And then much of it was written afterward. Some of it was changed after you."

"Oh. I've never heard anything like it."

He grimaced. "I would certainly hope not."

"Will you tell me what it's about?"

A little moan escaped his misshapen lips. "Oh, my inquisitive wife. No. Please do not ask that."

Despite the fact that his expression was that of a cornered animal, she walked forward, wanting to be closer to him. In the center of her mind, she could suddenly picture Erik huddled in a dark jail cell, trying to write his beloved music with a broken pencil. He looked down at her as she embraced him before relaxing and kissing her forehead with a soft laugh. "This is why I cannot finish the wretched thing," he said.

"You can't finish your masterpiece?"

"No. But it does not matter, really. It does not matter." They stood there together for several moments, and she closed her eyes and inhaled. The detergent made his shirt smell like pine. He gently drew back and took her hand. "Perhaps it is time for sleep now. You have sung for me. You must sing more often so your voice does not rust."

"Yes," she agreed. "We should do this at least once or twice a week."

"Yes!" he exclaimed. "Until the day the world hears you, you will sing here."

"We might have to go somewhere else if the neighbors complain."

"They will appreciate your voice if they know what is good for them. Everyone will appreciate your voice. But you will still be mine."

Her skin was warm as she entered the bedroom and changed into a lavender cotton nightgown. Maybe it was the music. Or the fact that he had opened up to her that evening. But she felt bolder and closer to him that night. Erik closed the blinds and curtains tightly and then turned off the lamp. Once she was sufficiently blinded, he approached and tilted her chin up to kiss her. Her cheeks tingled, and she wrapped her arms around his narrow shoulders, wanting the night to last a long time.

After they were lying beneath the covers, though, Erik moved quickly and gracelessly toward her. She knew that the evening would end with disappointment if she didn't act soon. And maybe there was no better time than the present. Taking both hands, Christine grabbed his upper arms and held him back from her. "Wait," she attempted to say. Her mouth was so dry that it came out as a choke.

Erik froze, and she immediately felt guilty. "You do not want…" he stuttered. "That is fine. I am sorry. That is fine." He rolled away to the opposite side of the bed.

Using her hands to guide her in the pitch black, she reached out and touched his shoulders with her fingertips. "No, Erik. I mean, yes. I mean…" _If she ever went back to school, she was going to take a Speech class._ "I mean I want to take our time together."

He turned and stared at her. "Why?"

She blinked several times. "Well…it'll be nicer…and I don't want to rush everything. I want to enjoy all our time with each other. I love being with you."

Erik was momentarily silent, eyeing her with confusion. "I always attempt to make it very quick for you. Someone once said I should."

"That's horrible! Who said that?"

"It does not matter," he mumbled.

"Well, they were mean and wrong to--"

"Nadir said it," he interrupted. "Before my imprisonment. If…If I won enough money in the lawsuit against _Falcon_, I thought some poor woman might stay with me if I bought her things. I wanted to live in isolation, but I did not want to be alone forever, you see. Nadir said it was possible that I might find a companion; many females will suffer through anything to have nice possessions, you know? And I would always keep my mask on. But Nadir said I should be quick and merciful if a female ever allowed…_it_. He was merely being honest."

"Erik--"

"I should probably not bother you at all, but you are very beautiful. And I love my wife so much. And I have always badly wanted to touch her."

"You--"

"And you allowed me to be with you on our wedding night. And so I thought--"

"_Erik!_" He stopped speaking and looked at her. She took a deep breath and found his hands in the dark, gently squeezing his fingers. "Listen to me," she whispered. "Nadir was wrong. He probably wasn't trying to be mean; maybe he wanted to protect you. But…he was very wrong, especially about us."

Erik didn't answer. She leaned forward and kissed the corner of his mouth, letting her hands run down his torn back.

"I didn't mean to upset you. I want you here. Will you just let me try something?" she softly asked. The yellow eyes bobbed up and down, which she took to be him nodding. "Thank you."

Christine pulled him toward her, determined not to let the night end on another awkward and depressing note. She really didn't know that much. Her father hated talking about the subject, and so most of her lessons came in the form of whispered conversations with friends that were frequently interrupted by giggles. Still, she liked to think that she wasn't completely clueless.

She continued to kiss him until he relaxed and simply stared at her, blinking and waiting. She took his cold hands into her own again, guiding him and explaining with as few words as possible. And he seemed to gain an understanding after a few moments, especially when she voiced her approval at his touch. His eyes became less guarded and more curious. He finally leaned forward, kissed her, and took over.

At first, Christine felt as though she were being dissected and studied like a foreign specimen. His caresses eventually became less mechanical and smoother. She was his wife again rather than an object of curiosity. The warmth that she'd been craving for the last several months, since London, finally started to overtake her.

Erik finally seemed to understand that these parts of their lives were not doomed to be miserable for her; she was not in bed with him out of pity. These moments could be some of the happiest and most healing times for both of them. Euphoria flooded her veins. He gazed at her with fascination and adoration until she pulled him up over her with a smile, and then he gladly acquiesced to her final wish for complete intimacy.

The strangeness of it all was worth it in the end. When he moved away and whispered her name, she quickly rolled over and embraced him, resting her cheek on his bare shoulder. She sighed with contentment as her pulse returned to normal, hoping that he was as ecstatic as she was. His flesh was now cool instead of ice-cold, and his heart beat quickly beneath her palm. She murmured words of gratitude and kissed him as a pleasant exhaustion overtook her.

As her eyes were beginning to droop closed, Erik spoke into her hair. "If Nadir were not dead, I would murder him."

She opened her eyes. "Oh. Erik. I think Nadir would be happy for us. And please don't speak about killing people right now. It's in the past, anyway."

"Oh." He wrapped his arms around her and kissed the side of her head. "You are very precious, and I will give you everything and make you happy."

"You do make me happy," she murmured.

Feeling as though she were drifting on a cloud, Christine dozed for a little while, soft music playing in her mind and trickling into her dreams. When she awoke and looked up a few hours later, the yellow eyes were still watching her. His hand was running through her hair. "Erik?"

"Yes, my wife?"

"Have you ever thought that you could compose music for other people?"

He scoffed. "They cannot hear _my_ music. They would not understand any of it."

"But maybe they would still like it. It's kind of both classical and modern. I'm not sure if anyone's written anything like it before."

"They would not understand," he repeated. Then he quietly added, "And my music is derived from that which is nearly nonexistent, so it does not matter."

"What do you mean it's derived from something nonexistent?"

"You are here," he stated. "That music is slowly dying a little death."

"I'm killing your music?" She sat up and stared at him.

Erik laughed at her indignation. He pulled her back down to him and held her tightly. "You are only killing my masterpiece. But I do not mind. It is a small sacrifice, really."

"I still don't understand."

He hesitated. "You ruin my music because my music thrived off misery and horror. When I began my masterpiece, I had nothing else. But it is impossible to be utterly miserable when one sleeps and awakens to this. " He touched her cheek with the tips of his fingers.

"Oh." She relaxed into his arms. "I'm not sorry for that, then."

"Nor am I. And as I said, _they_ would not understand even if I could write it. Only you understand. Still, I must find some trade that is useful to the human race, outside of entertaining them with the spectacle of myself."

"What did you want to do when you were younger? In India?"

"I do not even remember. Perhaps engineering or architecture--something where few would see me. But I have no formal education. And if I did write music, it would have to be something that their pathetic minds could comprehend. But I must do something to get you out of that torture chamber."

"You'll find something that you like to do. Besides, my work isn't that bad. Maybe a little dull."

"I am sure it is worse than any torment I could devise. Do you go tomorrow?"

She didn't want to think about work now. "Not till one."

"Perhaps you could not go at all and stay here with your husband."

"Mm. But then I'll be fired." She pressed several kisses to his neck, her heart fluttering.

"If they fire you, I will kill them."

"No, Erik." She kissed his tiny, nearly non-existent ear and ran her hand down over his sunken stomach.

"I will give them a stern reprimand, then. Is that better? As though that would do any good for…." He finally stopped speaking as her hands wandered over him, giving her his undivided attention. And she finally felt a little surer of herself.


	6. Chapter 6

Hi, guys. Sorry for the delay. I hope that I still have readers left. I'm almost done with school and about to begin the job hunt. Hopefully, you'll see another update within the next few weeks.

This vignette is appropriate for everyone and will hopefully leave you in a good mood. A big thanks to everyone who is continuing to read. Thanks to _MadLizzy _for her editing.

**Read and Review!!**

The metal scissors glinted off the glow of the dim kitchen lights. Placing his bony fingers into the two holes, he separated the blades. Slowly, he slid them over the boy's neck, positioning the sharp edges to slice downward and sever the head. He glared as the pair of blue eyes innocently stared up at him_. I have always wanted to do this, boy. _

He hesitated, wondering how angry his beloved wife would become by this act. But how he longed to hear that gentle clipping sound as the scissors cut into the crisp material!

But it might upset Christine.

_Damned photographs!_

It had all began innocently enough. As usual, he had been left alone when his sweet wife departed for work. For several hours, he had attempted to focus on his music but remained uninspired and unable to concentrate. The notes did not flow from his fingers as they once had, leaving him frustrated. As he had paced around the small apartment with his hands folded behind his back, he'd noticed one of her old photo albums stashed away in a box. It was navy blue and bulky, with a sky-blue ribbon placed decoratively on the front. Naturally, he'd been rather curious. And she had never told him _not_ to look.

There were pictures of Christine during holidays and birthdays. He was especially pleased by those of her timidly standing behind a microphone at her earliest recitals. She really was born to sing. There were a few pictures of her mother—that was where Christine had gotten her eyes—and many of her father.

But he'd suddenly come upon several pictures where she was with de Chagny in youth. Until that point, he'd swept de Chagny from his mind and pretended that the boy did not exist. And now that he'd discovered the joys that came with the nighttime, he felt even more possessive of Christine.

He did not bother to consider why she kept the pictures, only desiring to destroy them for intruding into his life. They could not be in _his _house. So he'd found a pair of new scissors inside a kitchen drawer and aimed to shred the photographs, or at least the parts that had de Chagny in them.

He cut a small slit into one of the pictures, feeling something unpleasant tug at the back of his mind. He could practically hear Nadir chastising him.

_Shut up, you foul Iranian!_

After a second of hesitance, he set the photograph and scissors upon the kitchen table. A growl escaped the back of his throat as he encountered the dilemma. Why had she kept them in the first place? Unless she had forgotten about their existence? His love was occasionally forgetful at times. Yes, that was it.

He sat there and waited for her to come home. Perhaps they could destroy the pictures together! Jumping up from the chair, he found a pair of purple scissors and placed them upon the table for her to use.

About a half an hour later, the front door opened and closed with a soft squeak. "Hello?" she asked, likely used to him greeting her at the entrance.

"I am in the kitchen, my love."

"Oh, okay!" He heard a jingle as she put her car keys on the table. "I think it's going to rain soon. We'll have to make sure that spot in the laundry room doesn't leak." Her voice became louder as she walked closer. "What did you want to do for…?" Christine arrived in the kitchen and looked at him. "What are you doing?"And then she stared downward, bending slightly for closer inspection. "Erik! What…" Her eyes widened. "What in the world are you doing?"

He sat up straight in the chair. "You forgot to dispose of these. I was merely assisting you."

"I don't want to destroy those!"

His eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"Because they're a part of my childhood," she replied, quickly reaching over and gathering them up.

"But it is _him_!"

"And he was my friend when I was like six or seven. We had fun together as kids."

"But he is irritating. And he cannot have you."

She shook her head in exasperation. "He doesn't have me!"

"But I do not want him in my house. It has been so good to forget him. Forever. He no longer exists."

"For the love of--Fine, Erik!" She sat down at the table, pushed the pictures back toward him, and crossed her arms. "If it makes you feel better, then destroy the pictures. If it really hurts you that much, then go ahead and cut them up."

He looked down at the pictures and then back at her. Then down at the pictures and back to her again.

Christine was angry.

"Perhaps you should destroy them," he stated, shifting uncomfortably. "I retrieved scissors for you."

"I'm not going to cut up the pictures. They're no different than the other ones I kept where I was with my friends. " He said nothing, merely watching her. She spoke again, her voice softer. "I did get rid of the ones where Raoul and I were older and engaged, though."

He pushed the pictures back to her, suddenly feeling as though the last several hours had been completely ridiculous. Shame descended upon him. Christine stacked the pictures together and turned them face-down. He wondered if she would take his scissors away.

His mother had taken his scissors away once. He'd been trying to cut colored paper during some childish artistic endeavor, but she hadn't wanted him to make a mess. She'd yanked away the scissors and sent him to his room.

But Christine didn't take his scissors away.

An amused smile suddenly formed on her lips, as though she were trying not to laugh. Christine stood and walked up behind him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and kissing the top of his head. "Who did I marry?"

He closed his eyes. "You married Erik."

"I did," she agreed. "Because I love him."

"I still despise the boy."

"Well, that's fine…as long as you two remain separated." Christine left him and retrieved the photo album before returning and putting the pictures in their proper places. She then flipped to the end and stared at the blank pages. "We should have a picture together."

He shuddered. "But it is…grotesque."

"It is not. We're married, and I want a photograph of us."

"Perhaps merely a photograph of you."

Her hand slipped into his. "But I want one of us together."

He hesitated, watching as their wedding rings sparkled side-by-side. "We will see."

At her request, they went out that evening. The skies were delightfully covered with grey, puffy clouds, and the fresh ocean air seemed to calm his mind and bring clarity. Fortunately, there were not too many other souls out because of the light rain. They took a short walk around a plaza, and he enjoyed watching her as she looked into shop windows. She remained in a pet shop for nearly ten minutes and played with the animals. _He_ kept his distance in a shadowed corner because the dogs tended to bark and growl at him. And Christine would not appreciate it if he permanently silenced the beasts. Instead, he stayed near the reptiles; the speckled snakes and turtles did not seem to mind his presence.

When she emerged, Christine immediately took his hand. "That was fun! They had the cutest Collie puppy."

He wondered briefly how Christine could enjoy tiny, fuzzy creatures and still look upon his face with love. Perhaps he would never have the answer to that. He merely contented himself with the pressure of her cheek resting against his arm.

When they arrived home, he noticed a blinking message on their answering machine. He was eager to take his wife to bed and delight her, though, so he said nothing. His evening plans were altogether successful.

Of course, she noticed it the following morning.

"We have a message, Erik! I didn't even see it last night."

"Ah."

She pushed play, and a familiar voice spoke from the recording.

"Hey, Christine. Erik. It's Gavin. It's been awhile since I've seen you both. Um…anyway, my wife went to see her family this weekend. I was wondering if you'd want to visit for a little bit. Let me know. Bye."

He felt mildly irked. It'd been some time since he'd been near anyone outside of Christine.

She looked up at him. "Oh. Erik, we should invite him over. Just for a little while." Her eyes questioned him, letting him make the final decision.

"You want to invite him here?"

She shrugged. "I was thinking that. I mean, I could meet him somewhere else. But he might like to see you."

"I am sure the thought of seeing me thrills him." He hesitated as she continued to wait for his answer. At least he was fairly sure that Mr. Lewis had no romantic interest in Christine. "Do what makes you happy," he said without malice. "So long as he tells no one of our whereabouts."

Her face brightened, and she kissed his cheek before leaving to return the phone call. Mr. Lewis came over the following day, knocking twice at the front door. Christine welcomed him and led him into their living area.

"This is nice," Mr. Lewis said. "Kind of…cozy."

"Thanks," Christine replied. "I'd like to add a little more furniture."

_He _was standing in a corner of the kitchen, growing tense at the idea of someone entering his domain. Christine came in and grabbed his hand. "Come out here, Erik." She led him to the couch and pulled him down beside her. He made sure his mask was properly in place.

Mr. Lewis shifted. "Erik. How are you?"

"Well."

"Great!"

Christine looked between them as a silence settled over the room. She finally spoke again. "So…what have you been up to? When does your baby come?"

Mr. Lewis smiled. "In about two months. Did I tell you we're having a girl?"

"No. That's great! How's Marisol?"

"She's well. She's at her mother's house right now. I…uh…try to avoid her parents." He chuckled.

Christine laughed, but there was a glint of sadness in her eyes. "Yeah. I guess in-laws are one thing that Erik and I don't have to worry about."

_He_ shifted, suddenly picturing his own mother asking Christine why in God's name she had married her monstrous son. And he somehow doubted that Christine's father would have approved of his daughter's choice.

Mr. Lewis asked Christine what they had been 'up to,' and the two of them chatted for awhile. _He_ stayed silent, only cringing when Mr. Lewis asked her about work.

"Work is fine," she replied with a shrug. "Not that exciting. But I'm lucky to have a job. How's your work?"

"I'm part-time right now. I'm still trying to make a decision about a permanent position. There's a lot of travel in some of the better jobs…and Marisol doesn't like that." His expression darkened slightly, and he glanced down and cleared his throat. "But we'll see."

They changed topics to entertainment that could be found in the city, and he began to think that the visit would end with his sanity intact. Mr. Lewis stood about a half an hour later and stretched. "Well, I guess I'd better head off. Did you want me to…?" He looked between them and started to reach for a small black case on the table.

Christine's eyes widened as though she'd forgotten something. "Oh! Yes! Just a minute."

He felt himself tense as Christine led him toward the kitchen, wondering what sort of horror was to be visited upon him.

"Erik?" she asked in a quiet voice.

"Yes?"

"I um…I asked Gavin to take our picture."

"_What?"_

She winced. "He brought his old Polaroid camera. No one will ever see the pictures. Please, Erik."

"It will be very ugly. Or half of it will be."

"No, it won't," she whispered. "You don't even have to see it. But I want it."

"I am _not_ removing my mask for it."

"I wouldn't make you do that," she replied, placing a hand on his arm.

"Fine." He stiffly returned to the living room with her, fingers curled. Christine stood close to him so that their shoulders were touching. Mr. Lewis slowly held up an older camera, giving him an uneasy glance.

"Be done with it," _he_ commanded.

"Right," Mr. Lewis replied. The young man was not stupid enough to tell them to smile. He took the first picture and laid it out to dry. He then started to ready the camera for a second one.

"Wait a second," murmured Christine. She turned slightly to the side and wrapped an arm around his narrow back. _He_ clumsily put an arm around her shoulders, feeling disoriented. It was the first time in his life that he'd willingly had his picture taken, and it was...disconcerting. The camera flashed a second time, and the picture developed. He stood back as Mr. Lewis and Christine huddled over the photographs.

"Aw. They turned out great," said Christine after a minute. "Thanks, Gavin."

"No problem. You guys have a good day."

Christine followed Mr. Lewis outside as he departed. They talked for several minutes beside the young man's car, and _he _discreetly watched them from the window. Jealousy tugged at him. He hated her attention on anyone else, even though it was likely that she dealt with other males during work. The idea of complete isolation was still appealing.

Still, she was not his hostage now. He could never make her stay. Well, technically he could take her somewhere and tie her up; then she would stay. In the past, he would have seriously considered the idea. But now he wanted her to stay because she was happy with him.

He finally glanced at the pictures. As expected, he was a giant, black…_thing_. She was smiling, though. And it didn't appear to be a fake smile for the camera. He stared at the picture; he didn't hate it.

Oh, he didn't like himself. But he liked that she was beside him. It was tangible, visual proof of his current life. The world would see it and have to accept it as the truth.

The world could see it? No.

The world could hear it….

With a quick scoop of his hand, he grabbed the pictures and dashed into their bedroom, shutting and locking the door. He did not care that she was still outside with Mr. Lewis. After all she had been through for _his _sake, she would not easily abandon him now. In his heart, he knew this.

After removing his mask, he picked up a red ink pen and his expensive paper. He stood against the wall, closed his eyes, and tilted his head back against the white plaster. Little black and red notes jumped and swirled around in his head like a deck of cards fluttering to the ground.

As he began to transcribe the first few notes, there was a knock at the bedroom door. "Erik?" His wife sounded rather confused. "Are you in there?"

"Yes," he replied, his mind still half in his music.

"Are you…okay?"

"I believe so."

All was silent for a moment, and he started to compose again. "Erik!" she suddenly yelled. "Where are the pictures of us?"

"I have them," he replied.

"You're not cutting them up, are you?" She sounded panicked.

"No, my dear."

"If you hurt those pictures, I swear that I'll…I'll…."

He chuckled. "Surely after spending so much time with me, you can make a proper threat."

"If you hurt those pictures, I'll kill you!" she exclaimed. He could hear humor seep into her voice, rendering her threat void. Plus, to hear his Christine say that she would kill anyone was amusing in itself.

He opened the door and looked down at her.

She stared up at him with wide eyes. "What are you doing?"

He held up the intact photographs. "It is my new inspiration," he stated. "I will not destroy them, but I must have them if you wish me to compose anything of value."

"Oh. Well, that's…that's good. I'm glad you like them." She glanced behind him and into the room, perhaps checking to make sure all was normal. Her eyes were slightly troubled as she looked back at him.

He touched her cheek. "What is wrong?"

She suddenly reached out and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. "Nothing really," she murmured. "But…I think that by asking Gavin to come out to London, I confused him. He doesn't know what he wants now."

"He had better not want you." He tightened his hold on her. Despite his earlier introspection, old habits seemed to die hard.

"No. He definitely doesn't want me. I think he wants to travel, though."

"Oh."

She was silent for a moment. "I…sort of feel bad for Marisol. I hope nothing happens to them."

"Ah. That is…yes." He was not sure as to how he should respond to her admission of pitying another man's wife. As with most matters involving human interaction, it was a bit beyond him at that point. He could, however, sense that she did not want to be alone. So he gently took her hand and said, "You may stay with me as I compose." He left the door to their bedroom opened, and she followed him inside. "I must warn you that your husband is a bit insane right now, my dear. But it is a better sort of madness. I am mad with love! And no one will die as a result of it."

She sat on the bed with a curious smile and stayed with him throughout the afternoon and evening. Even as he crazily paced around the room and muttered to himself while gesticulating, she stayed with him. Even as he raised his fist into the air with a cry of triumph, she stayed. Perhaps he even accomplished more with her there; he would stare at her whenever he became stuck on a particular measure, and it would come to him.

He finally collapsed beside her on the bed, drained from his sudden bout of inspiration. He barely moved as her hands removed his black jacket and began to gently massage his bony back and shoulders. A soft sigh escaped his mouth, and he stared at her with adoration. She leaned in once to touch her lips to his.

The new music in his mind, her loving touch, and the immense appreciation in her eyes for _him_ alone—if Mr. Lewis' visits always produced such things, perhaps he would invite the young man over more often.

* * *

His bitterness had faded to a sort of passiveness. Raoul had rested on the coastline of Florida for days on end, letting the sun tan his skin and allowing the sounds of the waves and vacationers to take over his mind. Some days he was fairly content and relaxed, feeling that he couldn't care less about anything else. Occasionally, he would still become depressed and angry over what the last year had done to his life. Either way, he felt as though he were trapped in limbo.

He met Hailey Walsh during his third week in Miami. They'd stayed together for six weeks, which was a new record since Christine. She was only twenty and majoring in English at a state school. As she was from Florida, Hailey had shown him around and taken him to some of the main tourist attractions over the last few weeks. (In Orlando, he'd taken comfort out of a hug from Minnie Mouse.) Although she knew _who_ he was, most of the people in the state were less interested in him than they had been in London. To the retirees, vacationers, and other beach bums, _Falcon _was merely 'something that had been on the news.'

Raoul sat in the plush armchair of his hotel suite, watching as Hailey put her strawberry blonde hair into a bun. She started to change out of a white t-shirt that had the name of her sorority on the front and into a turquoise sundress. They were going out to dinner at a seafood restaurant and maybe to a rock concert if they felt like it.

"So how long do you think you'll stay in Florida?" she asked, putting on a little blush.

"I don't know," he replied. "Until whenever. I've got to head back to Chicago one of these days."

"Hm. I've never been there."

"Maybe you can come back with me." He frowned. "Oh, but you're going back to school soon."

"Meh." She shrugged. "I'll just take a semester off."

It probably would have been right of him to tell her to stay in school. But his moral compass had been spinning since London, and he didn't really care at the moment.

"You've been to England, too, right?" she asked.

"Yep."

"Wow. You've done all kinds of cool things. I've been stuck here my whole life."

Raoul gave a somber laugh. _Yes, he'd done things._ "It's not so bad here. I'd stay here."

"Yeah. I think I've spent half my life on the beach. At least all of high school, right?" Hailey laughed, a nice light laugh. He'd gone so far as to tickle her to hear it.

Raoul enjoyed her company. Or at least he didn't have to think too hard when he was with her. Hailey wasn't the most interesting girl he'd ever met, but she was friendly. And he wanted someone uncomplicated for the time being.

Christine had been complicated in a strange way. She was far from being an intellectual, but there were parts of her that he never quite understood. Maybe that had separated them in the end?

"We should go to the concert tonight," said Hailey, interrupting his thoughts.

He rubbed his eyes. "Who's playing?"

"I dunno. Local bands." She ruffled his hair. "You always have the saddest look on your face."

"I do not," he half-heartedly retorted.

"You do," she replied. "But it's cute."

Raoul grunted, wondering how he'd reached this state. "I guess we should get going," he said, standing up. "Where's my wallet?"

"Over here," she chirped, plucking if off the desk to hand to him. As she did, several items fell out of the pockets. "Whoops." She bent down to pick up a crumpled five dollar bill and business card. Hailey turned over the third item, and, to his dismay, it was a photograph he'd kept of Christine. He'd taken it when they'd first started dating.

Raoul bent down to quickly take the items back. Naturally, Hailey's green eyes stayed on the photograph. "Is…was that your fiancée?" she asked.

"Yep," he replied, avoiding her gaze.

"Oh."

He shoved everything back into his wallet and momentarily turned away from her, gathering himself. It hurt. But he realized that it no longer hurt as much as it once had. There was a sting of pain, and then the ache slowly dulled. Raoul turned back around and took her hand. "Ready to go?"

She smiled. "Yeah! I've heard this place is good."

They went out, and he had a decent time. Every so often, he thought of Christine and some of their dates, but she didn't completely consume his thoughts. The horrors of the last year were still present in his mind, but he realized that they didn't have to destroy him. He was young, wealthy, and in good health. The events involving _Falcon _were slowly fading into the past. Why should he spend the rest of his life being miserable?

A week later, Hailey left for a school orientation. He'd finally told her to go back for the semester, and she'd agreed. As he sat by himself in the hotel suite, he decided to make one last phone call to ease his mind. And, assuming all was well, he would let it go forever.

Swallowing, he dialed the number. It had taken him awhile to look it up. "Hello?" a familiar voice answered.

"Hey," he cautiously replied. "It's Raoul de Chagny. How's it going?"

"Hey!" Gavin exclaimed. "You're the last person I expected to hear from. What's up?"

"Not much. I'm in Miami right now. Taking some time off."

"Great. You probably needed it."

"Yeah. It's been nice." They engaged in a few more words of small talk. A silence then passed as Gavin likely waited for him to state his reason for calling. Raoul hesitated. "So…uh…I was wondering…have you seen her at all? Are you in contact with…them?"

"Yeah." Gavin's voice became softer. "I saw them about a week ago."

Raoul's heart skipped a beat. "How is she?"

"She's doing good…seemed pretty happy…."

A lump formed in his throat. "Married?"

"Yeah."

"But you're sure she was doing well? She's safe?"

"Yeah. She's good. She's working, and they're living pretty quietly."

"Is she back in school?" Raoul asked.

"No," said Gavin. "I think they're still settling in and trying to make a living. But they're happy."

Strangely, Raoul felt a sense of peace come over him. In the past, a shameful part of him would have wished Christine to be miserable so that he could go rescue her from the fiend. But that feeling was gone now. He was happy that she was safe. "Will you do me a favor?" he asked.

"Uh…maybe." Gavin's voice was cautious.

"I'm not going to interfere," Raoul quickly said. "But I think this is something that's been a long time coming. Tell me if you don't agree. But I think I need to do it and move on."

"All right. What is it?"

Their conversation lasted another twenty-five minutes. Raoul hung up feeling better than he had in some time.

He broke up with Hailey a few weeks later. Well, those weren't the right words. He'd needed to go back to Chicago and told her to give him a call if she ever wanted to talk. They quickly lost touch. Other women came along, though, each one with her own desirable traits and flaws.

Finally, the right one appeared.


	7. Chapter 7

Hi, guys. I'm all graduated with my Master's now. It's a strange feeling. I'm not quite sure what happens next. Hopefully, someone will want to hire a "quiet" accountant.

As always, thank you for your kind words on these vignettes. Thanks to _MadLizzy _for editing and for always having my Erik's best interests at heart.

**Read and Review!**

"So we got four tickets to the baseball game next Friday."

"Wow. That's great." Christine tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and squinted at the flat panel computer screen. She'd received an error message telling her that the required customer information hadn't been inputted and was desperately trying to find the mistake in the database.

"I don't even like baseball that much," her coworker continued. "But my friend's aunt died, and she and her husband and two kids are going to the funeral. So they couldn't go to the game and had four extra tickets. My fiancé wants to go so I'll go, but I don't want him taking his two stupid friends along with us."

"I see." Christine rubbed her eyes, feeling the beginnings of a headache in the front of her skull.

"You should see these two dumb guys. They'll make stupid, gross comments throughout the entire game. So I told George that since they're my tickets, _I_ get to decide who's coming."

" Sounds fair." She finally found the error and typed in a customer's social security number. With much contentment, Christine checked the clock and saw that only twenty minutes were left in her workday. She mentally reminded herself to stop by the store on the way home.

"Anyway, I wanted another couple. We should start doing stuff with other couples—not his stupid college friends!"

"Right."

"So I told him I knew this married girl at work who was about my age. And you seem mature, what with all the stuff you've been through. So it seemed perfect."

"That's nice to--_what?_" Christine's head snapped up. Her vision momentarily blurred as her eyes adjusted to not staring at the screen.

Her coworker smiled widely. "Well, yeah! If you're up for it. The four of us could go together. George gets along with anyone so you'll be fine. And if it gets boring, we'll talk while the guys watch the game."

Christine blinked several times as a list of excuses processed in her mind. "I can't," she replied. "My husband doesn't really like baseball." She cringed at her explanation, knowing it was better to use excuses that never opened up room for another invitation.

Her coworker pursed her lips. "Oh. What does he like?"

_Music and cheesecake...and sometimes lassos._ "He doesn't really like any sports." Her coworker's mouth dropped open, and Christine quickly added, "He's the isolated artistic type. He doesn't really socialize." She kept her tone even and blunt; sometimes being a little frigid was unavoidable.

"Oh. One of those. Yeah…." Her coworker shrugged and turned away. "Well…if you change your mind, the offer is still open."

"Thanks." Christine took a quiet but deep breath as she returned to her computer screen.

Sometimes it felt as though she existed in two realities. There was work and grocery shopping and visits to ATMs and all the other wifely daytime activities. And then there was her stranger but most precious reality that existed behind the walls of her apartment and outside after sunset. For the most part, the two worlds stayed separated, mostly because Erik insisted on keeping it that way. On occasion, though, the two realities came dangerously close to colliding.

Maybe the simplest solution would have been to take off her wedding ring in public. Then people wouldn't ask about her husband. But that was something she would never do.

Christine escaped work without any more questions from her coworker. After stopping by the store for a carton of milk and some toothpaste (which, to her delight, Erik was also using), she arrived at her apartment. There was always relief in coming home, in knowing that unconditional love would greet her and burn away the stresses of the day. She set down her purse and bags on the table before embracing him.

If Erik didn't demand darkness for intimacy, she sometimes might have requested all of him at these moments. But there were still certain steps that he couldn't be forced to take.

"What did you do today?" she asked.

"I continued to work on my current piece. The hours pass very quickly with it. Just as they did with my masterpiece, save for the fact that I do not break objects in the process. At least not yet." His mouth showed the hints of his half-smile smile.

She smiled back. "I can't wait to hear it. Did you even stop to eat lunch, though?"

"No. I was not hungry. My inspiration kept me full, and food is an inferior substitute."

Christine shook her head. At least he'd gained a couple of pounds since they'd been married. "I'll get something big for dinner. Maybe I should get you a sixteen ounce steak."

"A waste of bovine," he replied. His fingertips ran up and down her back, possessive yet affectionate. She couldn't remember the point where he'd found a happy medium between never touching her and roughly grabbing her. Like everything with Erik, it had been gradual.

"Mr. Lewis called and left a message," Erik began, disdain in his voice. "I did not wish to answer the phone. If someone ever attempts to sell me revolting skin care products again, I will decapitate him."

Christine suppressed a nervous laugh as she recalled the incident. Before she'd been able to intervene, Erik had thoroughly insulted and threatened the telemarketer in both French and English. It hadn't helped that the salesman's opening line was: _Do you look in the mirror each day and wish your skin had the glow and texture of Hollywood's greatest stars? _

"It's fine if you don't answer the phone," she stated, squeezing his shoulder. Christine turned toward the answering machine and pushed play.

"Hey, guys. It's Gavin. I…was wondering if Christine would give me a call. I…uh…need to talk to her. Thanks."

The hesitance in his tone made her nervous. "Hm."

"I do not know what he would want," muttered Erik. "He saw you merely three weeks ago. He really does not need to see you again."

"I don't know," she replied. "But I guess I'd better call him back and make sure nothing is wrong."

"He had better not have given our location away."

"Gavin wouldn't do that." She was a little worried, though. If she and Erik had to pack up and disappear again, where would they go? Erik's suggestions about building a home underground would start to sound logical. With a swallow, she returned Gavin's call.

"Hey!" Her friend sounded relieved but still cautious. "I needed to talk to you."

"Okay. What about?"

"I don't really want to do it over the phone. Could you meet me somewhere over the next few days?"

Her stomach somersaulted. "Is something wrong?"

"No. No. It's nothing bad. It's…well, let's get together and discuss it."

"All right. I get off work tomorrow at five." Erik muttered something, and she gave him a helpless shrug.

"Great. We could meet somewhere. A restaurant, maybe."

"All right." They quickly arranged the details to meet at an inexpensive diner that apparently served great pie and had a pinball machine. As soon as she hung up, still feeling a little strange, she was met with Erik's expectant and irritated eyes. "Gavin wants to meet with me. And talk."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

Erik crossed his arms. "Surely you must have some idea."

She looked up at him, letting him read her eyes. "I don't, Erik. I have no idea." Christine hesitated, guessing that Gavin didn't want Erik to hear the conversation. Frankly, though, she didn't want to play that potentially lethal game. "You can come with me to the diner. Maybe it won't be that crowded."

Erik drew back. "No. I will not do that. You will return and tell me what he is so eager to speak with you about."

"I will," she replied. "It's not like I keep secrets from you."

A slight tension hung in the air for the rest of the night. Erik stayed at her side, and she could practically feel his paranoia, despite her physical and verbal attempts to keep him calm. He tapped his feet, twisted his hands together, and twitched during sleep. The regression saddened her, and she had to make an effort not to blame Gavin for it.

The following morning, she finally took her husband's hands and made him listen to her. "Erik," she calmly began. "The absolute worst that Gavin could say is that someone knows you're here. And then you and I would only have to go somewhere else. Together. That would be it."

"What if he tries to…." Erik tapered off and waved his hand to the side. "To ruin everything?"

"Do you really think Gavin would do that?"

"No. He knows what I would do to him." Erik bent his head. "You will come back to your husband. I know that. And everyone must know that."

She spent several more minutes making sure that his mind was stable, kissed him goodbye, and left for work.

After what felt like a long and annoying day behind her computer, she met Gavin. They took a seat in a wooden booth that was a good distance away from the other customers. The smell of hamburgers and mustard made her a little queasy. Gavin shuffled his feet and kept his gaze on the green striped tablecloth. An elderly waitress took their order, and Christine made a mental note to get a slice of chocolate pie with whipped cream for Erik. Desserts seemed to be one of the few high calorie foods he would eat.

Gavin finally looked directly at her and chuckled. "Heh. I remember sitting across from you when we were in school last year, trying to figure out why you were acting so weird."

She laughed. "I bet you're sorry you ever asked."

"It's been interesting."

"Is it about to get more interesting?"

Gavin hesitated and looked down again. "I'm not sure how to begin this…."

"You're making me nervous. No one…found out about us, did they?"

"No. Nothing bad." He leaned forward slightly. "I'll just say it. There is this…this sort of fund for _Falcon's_ victims. It's kind of separated from what's going to be distributed from the lawsuits soon."

"Oh. I hadn't heard about it."

"Yeah." Gavin shifted. "It's not well known. Anyway, I think I can get you some of the money from it. For Erik, I mean."

Her eyes widened. "How can you do that? What do you have to do with it?"

"Well, I have connections, you know. And I sort of hinted that there was someone who needed help but couldn't come forward."

"No one knows where Erik is, do they?"

"No. I promise; it's completely safe."

Their food came, and they both murmured a thank you. Christine took a sip of water and decided that her chicken sandwich looked unappetizing. "So…Erik and I can just _have_ money?" she asked when the waitress was gone.

"Pretty much." Gavin studied her. "You don't seem too happy about it."

"I'm-I'm surprised," she murmured. "You were able to get money. I mean, I don't know much about how all of that works. But I guess I thought it would be more complicated."

"It's not complex," he replied. He was still having a hard time maintaining eye contact. "Like a sort of donation thing. Very private. Safe. You believe me, right? I wouldn't do anything to expose you guys."

"No. I believe you. It's…I don't know…."

"It's what?"

She wrung her cloth napkin in her hands. "I've always been so grateful to have escaped London alive with Erik. It hurts, knowing what's been done to him and…what he's done to other people. I finally gave up trying to decide right from wrong and who deserved what, and I…I loved him. Even though all the courts in the world probably would have convicted him, I wanted him to survive. And I got what I wanted."

"I don't understand what you're getting at…."

Christine swallowed back a lump. "It was kind of like a bargain, I guess. As long as Erik survived and wasn't arrested, we didn't need anything else. Not even the lawsuit money."

"A bargain with who?"

"Um…."

"With like…_God_?"

"I don't know." The expression on his face made her turn a little red. Between Gavin and her agnostic husband, it was a wonder that she had any spirituality left. "I know it doesn't make any sense to you."

"Well," Gavin began, clearly trying not to offend her. "If you don't need all the money, you could give what's left to charity." She cocked her head to the side. He sighed. "Look, wouldn't you agree that Erik was denied everything growing up?"

"Of course." Even thinking about it made her angry. "He didn't get an elementary education because his mother was crazy. Everything after that was ten times worse."

"Right. So maybe this halfway makes up for some of that."

"Maybe." She timidly smiled. "I keep thinking that once he's on his feet, Erik might create something wonderful. He's working on his music again, and I can't wait to hear what he's come up with. Maybe this would help us move forward a little faster." She picked at her cup of pasta salad and pondered it. "How much is there?"

"Three hundred thousand right now."

"Holy…."

"Don't think only about Erik for this decision," said Gavin, lowering his voice. "You made some sacrifices."

"But those were my decisions," she replied. "I don't regret them."

"What's your point? You don't have to be a damned martyr, Christine."

She dropped her fork and sharply drew back. "I'm not trying to be! I only found out about this today. Thousands of dollars suddenly came out of nowhere. Why shouldn't I be a little suspicious?"

Gavin looked down. "Sorry. I shouldn't have said that. It's been a rough couple of weeks. You're right—it does seem a little suspicious. But, believe me, it's only there to help you guys."

"It's all right. Maybe it is a blessing. After the money runs out from selling my old house, our finances are going to be tight. Work barely covers all the bills. If there were an emergency, we'd be in trouble. And…there are some things that I really want to do for Erik."

"Good," said Gavin. "Look. I'm not going to force you to take it. That's your guys' decision. I'm telling you that it's there if you want it."

"Thanks. I'll talk to him. And I'm sorry to be so…."

"Cynical and paranoid?" Grinning, he dodged the balled up napkin she threw at him.

"Erik _was_ a little upset about our meeting."

Gavin's grin faded. "That's not good."

"I'm sure he'll be okay after I explain."

Gavin didn't appear entirely consoled.

* * *

While he normally only tucked the lasso into his suit when they left the apartment, he had kept it with him all that day. He wanted to be fully prepared in the case something did try to ruin his bliss. Let it be said that he had a broad definition of 'self-defense.'

Christine's return calmed him. She had a close-lipped smile on her face when she walked through the doorway, and her eyes held no fear. Standing on tiptoe, she kissed him on the corner of his twisted mouth. She took his hands and led him to the sofa before gently pulling him down beside her. He resisted the urge to hop back up and demand she tell him everything.

"Well…Gavin had some news," she began. He was grateful that she did not avoid the issue by asking him how his day was or other such nonsense.

"What did he want?"

Tucking herself in the crook of his arm, Christine told him of their conversation, her voice soft and uncertain. He wasn't sure how he felt by the time she was finished. Annoyed? Suspicious? Relieved? Confused?

"So…" she continued, looking into his eyes. "That's about it. Do you…do you want to take it?"

He stared at the carpet. Of all things, his mind had not prepared for this. "I do not know."

She released a clipped laugh. "That's how I felt. It's a little strange. But maybe Gavin's right. Maybe we deserve it…or at least have a right to it. It'll be a start for us."

"I do not know," he repeated. Suddenly, he was very suspicious. He knew the world far too well to believe that money sprang up from the ground. Even the current victims in the lawsuit were likely going through hell to get their restitution.

Christine nodded. "Well, we'll think about it. There's no reason to be upset over it."

"Indeed." He felt momentarily resentful toward her, as though she had decided that _he_ was incapable of supporting her. But no; his angel was innocent. He then resented Mr. Lewis for telling her about it. And he also wondered if….

"I brought you some chocolate pie," she began, holding up a Styrofoam carton.

"I am sure that I will enjoy it." He took it with a slightly trembling hand, trying to avoid doing or saying anything that would make her question his state of mind.

After they sat in silence for several minutes, Christine excused herself to retrieve clothing from the dryer. He pondered the situation awhile longer before rising from the sofa and pulling the phonebook from a kitchen drawer. He then examined a map of the city that they kept handy. When all was memorized, he went into their bedroom to find Christine matching black socks.

The room was filled with her fragrance, and it was still one of the few scents that he was clearly able to smell. It made him want her. "I believe I need a walk," he stated. "I must think on these matters in solitude." He noticed her immediate expression. "I will not steal anything."

"I know that. Are you sure you don't want company?" Her forehead was creased with worry. "I didn't mean to upset you. But you didn't want me to lie to you about what Gavin told me…."

"No. No." He gently kissed her temple before putting on his mask. "You have done nothing, my love. It is a very confusing matter. One that must be thoroughly explored." He moved to leave the room.

"Be careful," she called after him.

"I am always careful. I will return soon." Before leaving, he ensured that he had cash in his pockets. The cool night air signified that autumn was near. He looked forward to more cloudy days. She was anticipating the holidays.

He had not lied to his wife that evening. He _was_ walking, and he was _not_ going to steal anything.

He simply had not told her that he was also going to visit Mr. Lewis. But she hadn't asked, had she? He called a cab from a payphone and then dialed Mr. Lewis' number. "I am coming to your home," he said into the receiver. "Be out within fifteen minutes, or I will knock. And then I will break into your home." He hung up the phone as Mr. Lewis made a choked protest.

He had been vaguely aware of the location due to his 'background check' on the young man from months ago. He'd used a map to figure out the precise street; this type of activity was second nature now. Keeping his head low so that his mask was not visible, he crawled into the back of the taxi when it arrived. Fortunately, cab drivers seemed accustomed to having strange passengers at night. This one even made comments about the weather and sporting events. _He_ merely grunted in response.

Once near his destination, he paid the fare and walked the short distance to Mr. Lewis' apartment. Although he did not think the young man was stupid enough to call the police or Christine, he kept an eye on his surroundings. After about two minutes, the front door creaked open and clicked close. There was the sound of rapid footsteps clicking across the pavement and toward the edge of the complex.

He heightened himself as Mr. Lewis stepped forward and began to look behind some of the landscaped bushes. After a minute of watching him with slight amusement, _he _spoke. "Good evening."

Mr. Lewis jumped and turned around. "Erik," he stated. "What the--" He closed his eyes. "What are you doing here?"

"You offered _my_ wife money today. Why?"

A look of agitated understanding crossed his face. "It wasn't my money. It was from a fund."

His fingers curled. "Where did you get it?"

"It's just a fund…."

"You are lying." A snarl crept into his voice. "That is very unwise."

"I'm not lying! You can look at the accounts if you want."

"Now you are merely avoiding the truth. Do you really think I will not get it out of you?"

"You're not going to kill me," said Mr. Lewis with a scowl. "It would upset Christine."

"I do not need to kill you," he replied."Breaking a finger or two will not kill you." _He_ realized at that moment that he was still sane of mind. He was angry and irritated and slightly murderous. But his thoughts were strangely clear.

"Gavin? Are you speaking to someone?" A woman's voice echoed into the night, causing them both to glance up.

The young man whispered a curse. "No, sweetheart!" he called. "I was singing to myself."

_He _ducked behind the corner as light footsteps approached, still keeping one eye on Mr. Lewis. A dark-haired woman appeared in a long white nightgown, barefoot and rather round. "I swore I heard someone else."

"I said 'hi' to the neighbor," Mr. Lewis choked out, whirling to face her. "That's probably what you heard." He walked toward his wife and took her slender hand. "Sweetheart, let's get you back inside. It's getting cool out here." They disappeared behind the corner. "I'll be in soon."

"What are you doing out here?" she asked.

"Getting some fresh air and…uh, checking some cracks in the bricks. We want to make sure everything's patched up before winter, right?"

"Why are you doing that at night?"

"Honey, please. Give me a moment. I'll be right in."

"Fine," she muttered. "Why don't you check the cracks in the roof while you're at it?"

The door closed, and Mr. Lewis quickly returned. "Look," he began, his voice strained with desperation. "Don't take the money. I don't care. I can't talk about this right now…please…."

"I want to know where this fund came from," _he_ repeated with less hostility.

"Why does it matter?" Mr. Lewis rubbed both hands over his face. "No one is coming to find you. Or her. It's money. It's there for your benefit. It doesn't matter how it got there."

"_It does matter, you idiot!_" A wave of frustration overtook him. _"Why can I not be left alone?" _

"I don't know," Mr. Lewis replied, backing up a step. "I don't know. Because life sucks. And I'm going inside now." He turned around, walked several steps, and then paused.

_He_ stared at the back of Mr. Lewis' neck.

They both waited to see if the lasso would come slithering out to make its move.

It didn't. Mr. Lewis walked to the door, opened it, and disappeared inside the apartment.

He stood there and stared at nothing. _Because life sucks._ He didn't even know how to respond or react, partly because he could not really argue with the declaration. It was an informal, vernacular interpretation of his own philosophy, wasn't it? It was the truth.

Or was it? Was life one giant disaster that constantly threatened him with ghastly surprises behind every corner?

No. Not always. Not this last year. For once, he'd been happy to be alive. Not once in these last few months had he wished for his life to end.

As he thought back on the souls he had encountered during his lifetime, he came to the comforting conclusion that he was probably no longer the most miserable, wretched man on earth. Oh, he was still wretched. But he was not the _most_ wretched, and that was his victory. There were people wanting to kill themselves all across the planet—people who hated life and had nothing to live for--and he was no longer one of them. He was not homeless or alone, and he had a wife who was much better than everyone else's wife. He did! Erik did.

Of course, he would always be too ugly to give her everything she deserved. He still hated daylight, and he hated anyone but Christine to be near him. Crowds and deafening excuses for music sent off a ticking sound in his mind that still threatened his sanity. It was even difficult for him to part with his current composition because he did not think mankind deserved to hear and judge it.

But even if he was not yet capable of giving her everything she deserved, at least…at least he could allow her to have what she deserved. He no longer had to fight for her or prove that he was not the worst creature on earth; he could simply love her. And perhaps do what was best for her at the brief expense of his pride.

This time, for her sake, they would take the money. Despite his suspicions, they would take it.

Perhaps she would use it to return to school. She had left her studies to drag him out of London's sewers.

He picked chrysanthemums, asters, and pansies from someone's front yard and formed a small bouquet for her. He placed ten dollars on the ground and held it in place with a large rock. Christine would not like it if he stole the flowers.

As he carried the bouquet down the street, he slightly lifted his mask and attempted to sniff the blooms with his non-existent nose. He might have caught a faint whiff, but it was difficult to tell.

He was sure they would smell better after Christine had touched them.


	8. Chapter 8

Thank you all for your reviews! I've been more of an action/suspense writer, and so it's been a little challenging to do domestic scenes. I hope that they continue to be interesting.

I want to apologize to those who thought Christine was pregnant in the last chapter. Many of you got that impression, which shows that I should have worded the section differently. E/C is a very, very long way from that, but I am sorry if I disappointed those who wanted to see it happen.

Thanks again to all those who continue to read. Thanks to _MadLizzy_ for her help with editing.

**Read and Review!!**

When Erik came home that night holding a handful of flowers, she wasn't sure what to expect. A few darker possibilities passed through her mind (_flowers for a funeral, my love!_), but she shoved them away in shame. "Erik," she began, wanting to tell him that they wouldn't take the money, not if it upset him this much. She hoped the stupid money hadn't already caused a catastrophe. "We won't take the--"

Erik interrupted her, seemingly calm. "My Christine. We will accept the funds. Or we will ensure that they are secure and then take them." He handed her the small bouquet.

"Are you sure?" she asked, briefly wondering why the flowers still had dirt covering the bottoms of the stems. "You're okay with it?"

"Yes," he replied. "Yes. And there will be no more discussion."

"Where did you go?"

A pause. "I paid a visit to Mr. Lewis."

Christine's heart jumped. "You went to Gavin? What did you…say to him?"

"He assured me that the money was secure. But still make sure it goes through Mr. Lewis. If it is a trap of some sort, he will suffer for it. Not us."

She waited for more and hoped that poor Gavin wasn't scared out of his mind.

"I wonder if Mr. Lewis survived," Erik added after a few seconds.

"Erik!"

His eyes glimmered, and she knew he was toying with her. "I did nothing," he continued. "But his wife could have killed him. You are a much better wife. She will not be silent."

"Did she see you?"

"Of course not."

Christine relaxed. "That's probably good." She filled a plastic glass with cold water, set the flowers inside, and placed it in the center of the coffee table. The flowers bobbed up and down until the stems settled at the bottom. Erik slowly removed his mask and massaged his temples. Now that he didn't wear it as often, the heavy porcelain mask seemed to bother him more.

Even if she didn't know the details, Christine sensed that it had been a difficult decision."Thank you, Erik," she murmured, walking forward and kissing his jaw. "I think the money really might help us if we're careful with it."

"It is for you only."

"No. It's for both of us. After everything you went through, you deserve something. Nothing can ever make up for all that…."

"Your flowers." Erik changed the subject. "I have never retrieved them for anyone. But I was informed that females like them."

"Females do," she agreed with a soft laugh. "I like them."

"Good. You will have more."

They shared a tranquil night together with no more talk of the money. Whatever happened with Gavin seemed to have a positive effect on her husband's mind; he was calm and lucid.

Erik did, however, react more quickly to their new fortune than she would have preferred.

The next morning, she readied for work as always, slipping on a pair of heavier grey slacks and a white blouse. It was probably time to pull out the autumn jacket as well. In a couple of months, she would need the heavy winter coat. Maybe Erik would like a long, black, wool one. She'd seen some at the department stores a week ago, and--

"You do not need to go now," Erik stated from the doorway, interrupting her thoughts. "You can stay here. We do not need their petty salary." He distastefully pulled at the blouse with his thumb and index finger, as though trying to get it off of her.

Christine took his hand before he tore a hole in her clothes. "Well, I want to keep working until we decide what to do. It can't hurt to have money."

"Why would you want to go there?"

"I like to get out during the day," she admitted. "To do something useful…get some sun…."

"You need sunlight," he agreed. "The Iranian once said so."

"It doesn't hurt. You should probably get some, too."

He ignored her last statement. "But you must pursue other things now. Your music and schooling and such. Not this waste of time taking commands from ignorant halfwits."

She shrugged. The thought of resuming school and a musical career was a little overwhelming. "Oh. Maybe. I don't know if I'll go back."

"But you must. It is your destiny."

"Oh, Erik. That's silly."

His eyes narrowed, and he gripped her hand as he directly faced her. His voice took on a more demanding tone. "Either you quit that wretched job and pursue your music, or we will live in isolation and you will _never_ have sunlight. I will not have _my_ wife doing _this _day after day forever. She will either shine for the world to worship or be mine alone. She will not work at the whims of others."

"You can't tell me what to do." Her statement came out weaker than she would have liked. "Maybe I like my job right now."

"Yes, I can see how much you like it. I have seen men take more joy out of being tortured to death than you take out of that job."

She put on a disgusted face. In reality, Erik's comments were becoming less and less shocking to her. "That's not true."

"It is," he replied. After releasing her hand and darting behind her, he wrapped an arm around her waist. She couldn't see his face, which likely emboldened him. "Perhaps we should use the funds to build a small home…far, far away from everyone else and everything…and you will do nothing but keep house and sing for me. Unless you wish to reconsider, my wife." A touch of humor seeped into his voice as he spoke directly into her ear.

Christine did consider it—not because she necessarily believed his threat but because Erik's suggestion wasn't exactly a bad one. Not wanting to completely reject the proposal or easily give into his forceful demands, she offered him a bargain. "I'll apply to schools if you let me show someone your music."

Erik was silent for several seconds. "Only if it is under your name."

"But I don't want people thinking I'm a brilliant composer. What if they want me to play something?"

Erik released her, and she turned around to face him. "There are two things that would destroy my sanity," he began. "One of them is people near me. I do not want to be known or bothered or noticed. I do not want them; they would not want me."

She sighed. "You could be anonymous, then."

"That is truly the only possibility."

"What's the other thing?" she asked.

"The other what?"

"The other thing that would destroy your…." She didn't even have to finish the sentence; the answer was in his eyes. "Never mind. Your sanity is going to be fine. Better than fine." She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him on the temple. Now that she was facing him, he was less bold. "I'll think about it. And we'll do…something good for ourselves." He seemed content with the answer and allowed her to go to work.

She considered returning to college over the next week, knowing that spring deadlines were quickly approaching. It was unlikely that Erik could ever get a formal education unless he pursued a degree over the Internet. As of now, she didn't think he'd want to be bothered with it. Erik was still against much of legitimate society, and he hated the institutions that had rejected him when he was younger.

That meant that she needed to take a step forward for both of their futures, even if it was a little terrifying. She'd always meant to get some sort of music degree; her father and Erik had taken priority over her education, though, and it had never worked out. Maybe now was the time to try again.

So Erik got his way.

"Will you help me prepare for the auditions?" Christine later asked as she filled out her applications. She'd only applied to schools within or nearby the city so that they didn't have to disrupt their lives (not to mention Erik's sanity) with another move. Some of the applications were for general colleges, and others were specifically for the arts. She wondered if having her name in the news over the last year would help or hurt her.

"We will not rest until you are perfect," he replied. "They will fall upon their knees and weep at the sound of your voice. Or they had better if they know what is good for them."

She stared at the applications, wondering if she'd actually get through college in the third round…or even if she'd be accepted this time. Old insecurities crept up on her and twisted her stomach into a knot. "I might not get in, Erik." She didn't want to disappoint him.

He touched her hair. "That is ridiculous. You will."

"I might not."

"You will. And if not, the colleges do not deserve you. And I will burn them to the ground for their insolence. How is that?"

With the exception of the arson threat, it was exactly what she needed to hear. Even if she failed, Erik would always be on her side.

* * *

By setting up the fund for Christine and her…husband, Raoul was able to take a needed step forward. He slept a little easier at night knowing that she was doing well. If Gavin had given any sign that Christine was in danger, Raoul would have taken an overnight flight to Boston. As long as she was safe, though, he would ensure her financial stability and then let it go.

Even if he felt better about Christine, though, Raoul was still stuck in his solitude. He'd had a few dates that didn't work out. His house on the outskirts of Chicago was too large and empty for one person. He also returned to his old offices and helped with some of the matters involving the liquidation and lawsuit settlements for _Falcon_. The building was three-fourths empty, and those who were there didn't seem happy to see him.

While they were standing in the elevator, one guy wearing a crooked red tie finally spoke to him. "Why the hell didn't you just leave it alone?"

Raoul had glanced up. "Didn't you see the news? Why do you think I didn't leave it alone?"

The guy rolled his eyes. "So a few people in some screwed up third-world country blamed the company for all their problems? And now we all lose our jobs? But I'm sure you've got a hell of a fortune saved away. No problem for you to decide what was ethical, and screw everyone else!"

"You have no idea what you're talking about," Raoul replied as the elevator opened, keeping an even tone. "Actually people like you were most of the problem." He left the guy standing there uttering a string of curses. By the end of the week, the guy had been fired--not that it mattered much now. There was no use trying to explain to some people. The media didn't help either. Yesterday, he'd heard about some international feminist organization announcing that Leonie was nothing but a scapegoat. Raoul had nearly hurled the remote control at the television.

Over the last several weeks, his upper back and shoulders had started to ache. A chiropractor told him that it was likely caused by stress and that he probably needed a vacation.

"I just took a vacation," he replied.

The older woman shrugged and said, "Try changing mattresses and pillows, then."

More to get out of the house than anything else, he visited a store that sold a variety of novelty products. There were specially made pillows and mattresses that conformed to the body, outdoor equipment, expensive office supplies, pool tables, arcade games, fitness equipment, and furniture that gave massages. All in all, it was a place where people with disposable income could come and play.

A twenty-something curly-haired brunette helped him find more comfortable pillows and a mattress. He also picked up a handheld video game to help pass the long hours. He could see the girl watching him out of the corner of his eye and guessed that she knew who he was. Her ankle-length, patchwork skirt and longer hair gave her the appearance of a hippy. She probably hated him over all the environmental stuff. At least she was helpful, though, and he left in an okay mood.

He returned to the store two days later to buy a hammock. The same girl was there reading a book on her break, and a grey-haired, gruff woman who constantly muttered under her breath helped him at the register. Raoul left the store in a slightly worse mood and decided not to come back.

"Mr. de Chagny!"

Raoul cringed in the middle of the parking lot as his name was called out, praying it wasn't a reporter. Every so often, they still crawled out from under the rocks. The brunette from the store was waving outside the entrance. He stopped, and she quickly walked toward him. "Yeah?" he asked.

"You left your credit card on the counter." She held it out, and he took it. "My grandma was convinced you wanted us to have it, but I managed to pry it out of her hands."

"Oh. Thanks! Yeah. That was stupid of me."

"No problem. Have a good weekend. And come back next week for our sales." She turned and walked back to the store, her sandals clicking against the pavement.

The girl's mention of her grandmother put an idea into his head, and Raoul was surprised that he hadn't thought of it before. He didn't have to be completely alone. After making some phone calls, he drove to his great aunt's house in Wisconsin for the weekend. Auntie Ellen, a former elementary school teacher, had been his mother's favorite aunt.

As with many families, his mother's side had never been crazy about his father. Although they were fairly wealthy, his mom's family was also more traditional and saw his dad as an uptight European aristocrat who took their daughter away from her home. The last time he'd seen any of them was at Phillip's funeral. He hadn't seen some of his cousins in years.

Raoul received a giant bear hug after he arrived and rang the musical doorbell.

"I've heard about everything!" his great aunt exclaimed. "There were so many times that I wanted to reach you, but I didn't want to put everyone here under the spotlight. I didn't even know how to reach you most of the time. Heavens. I didn't even know what was going on half the time. You can't trust the news anymore."

"It's all right," he replied. "There's not much anyone could have done. It was better that you stayed out of it."

"What a mess it was!"

"Yep. It was."

Aunt Ellen shook her head and guided him inside the two-story brick home by the shoulder. "You know, your mother never liked some of those people. I remember her coming here after she returned from her honeymoon in Paris. I asked her how the wedding was. She said, 'Oh, auntie! The wedding was lovely. And Louis was wonderful. But this pretty blonde girl, one of Louis' partners, whispered that I looked like a mouse. Do I really look like a mouse?' I don't think your mother was always happy about what went on. But she wanted to stand by your father."

Raoul swallowed, bitterly wishing for a moment that someone would have stood by him. "He was a good man."

"That may be. I always thought he worked too much."

"He did," Raoul reluctantly agreed, hoping the conversation would head in a different direction. Thankfully, they were soon greeted by his great uncle and some cousins who slapped him on the back and took him into the living room to eat chips and watch a college football game.

Over the next few autumn days, he played touch football in the backyard, ate home-cooked meals, and enjoyed the season. He even allowed his younger cousins to pour fallen leaves on him, and then he helped them rake the leaves into a pumpkin-shaped bag. He'd always liked kids; sometimes he missed being one himself. To his relief, no one ever mentioned Christine.

Raoul wanted to stay longer but knew he was avoiding his problems at work. He did vow to visit more often and intended to stick to that promise. His relatives all wished him the best and gave him leftovers to take back with him.

After he got home, he visited the novelty store again to buy a flexible lamp for his office. This time the brunette was entering the store to begin work, wearing jeans and a navy blue t-shirt. She was carrying the long skirt and sandals under her arm. Maybe she only changed into the outfit for work to add to the relaxed atmosphere.

"Glad to see you back," she said, holding open the door for him.

"Thanks. I didn't bring my credit card this time."

"Good thing grandma isn't here, or she'd be disappointed." She gave him a half-smile. "How can I help you today?"

"I want a lamp." He paused. "Maybe a new grill, too. I don't like the one I have now."

Raoul shopped there five more times before he finally asked her out on a date. "Just for coffee or something," he said.

She looked a little hesitant but said, "Yes, I'll go have coffee." She used a tone of voice that said she would _only_ have coffee. Raoul guessed that she must have seen a few of the tabloid headlines. To his shame, some of them were true. He'd lost his head in London for a few months. It wasn't a surprise that she was a little wary.

That was okay, though. He was wary, too.

* * *

Ever since Mr. Lewis' call regarding the funds, the ringing of the phone always made _him_ cringe. Usually it was a telemarketer or a pollster or someone from Christine's horrid job. Still, he was always nervous that something would intrude into his home. Christine always told him to relax.

But that was difficult when he had a mother who had snapped at him at least ten times a day…or when he never knew just _who_ would enter his prison cell…or when he flew from place to place to avoid capture for his gruesome offenses.

The phone rang in mid-October, and Christine answered. When she gave a little squeal, he ran to her and nearly pulled out the lasso, ready to destroy whatever had caused her to make such a noise. She saw him and mouthed, "Gavin and Marisol had their baby!"

"Oh." He sat back down and awkwardly listened to her congratulate Mr. Lewis about fifty times. It was a topic he preferred to avoid.

He had never killed a child. Even in his moments of dark madness, it had simply never served a purpose. There were points where he'd come across children during his raids of homes. But he'd allowed them to run away screaming as he searched for his main targets. Children were supposed to be innocent and helpless--his antithesis. And so he ignored them completely.

Christine was _his_, and he would not allow an infant to take her away.

Fortunately, after hanging up, she said nothing except, "I'm glad it went well for them." She kissed the top of his head and nuzzled his death's cheek with her nose. He made a noise that was somewhere between a grunt and a purr.

The event did put her in a strangely festive sort of mood. A ceramic white ghost found its way onto their coffee table, and paper bats were suddenly taped on their front windows. He knew he was in trouble when she came home from work carrying two giant, orange, round _things._

"Why?" he managed to ask as he stared at the objects, his arms limp at his sides.

"They're pumpkins," she said with a grin. "I bought two to carve." She nearly dropped one as she set them on the kitchen table.

He glared at the objects. Of all the holidays, this particular one both irritated and intrigued him the most. Many idiots decorated themselves to be as hideous as possible. They took pleasure in hanging skeletons, fake blood and organs, and the concept of death in general.

_Why take pleasure in it only one day of the year? _he wanted to ask. But, of course, none of it was real to them. If they had seen an actual eyeball hanging from its socket, they would not have found a fake one so damned amusing, he was sure. And if they had truly possessed a face that looked like a rotting skull, they would not have eagerly purchased one from a costume store.

He attempted to push his darker contemplations out of his mind and allow his wife to enjoy her festivities. Her youth was showing itself after a long absence, and he had missed the innocent sparkle in her eyes. Plus, he enjoyed watching her do her activities. _His_ wife in _his_ house doing wifely things. It sent a little thrill through him.

To put it kindly, though, his wife was not skilled at the task of carving her orange fruit, even while using a paper pattern. A little over a week later, he heard her make noises of frustration as she dug the jagged utensils into the orange flesh.

At some point, she dropped the tool and stared with dismay at what was meant to be a cat in a witch's hat. "I should have done the triangle eyes and nose face. This is awful."

"It is…perhaps you should sing," he replied, stroking her hair. "That is your forte. This is useless nonsense."

"But I wanted it to look nice." She looked up at him with a frown. "Erik? Will you carve the other one?"

"No. I do not wish to."

"Please?" Her eyes got wider. "I want to see what yours looks like."

"No."

"Please, Erik?"

"I hate it." He realized that he sounded like a five-year-old. But why must she ask such things of him?

"Fine." She folded her arms. After a second, she stood and began to pull the intestinal seeds out from the inside. "I'm going to cook them," Christine indignantly declared.

Of course, he finally sat down and carved the vile thing for her. He felt he was somehow ruining her holiday if he did not. And he had made her sing for many hours over the past few weeks in preparation for auditions. And she had rescued him from his own personal hell.

He found the most disturbing pattern he could find of a skeleton hanging from a bare-branched dead tree. She turned and watched him as he worked, her lips twitching upwards with delight.

He pretended the object was something other than a stupid fruit. The knife made a nice half-thudding, half-squishing sound as it entered the pumpkin's irritatingly bright skin. _Squish, thud, squish, thud…._

Once upon a time, there had been a particularly vile prison guard with a particularly nasty laugh. And well…in the end, the guard had been left without eyes, a nose, ears, and a tongue. So carving into the fruit was not new territory. He did not inform Christine of this, though.

"Erik. It's wonderful," she said when he was done. Christine sighed with a mixture of admiration and lighthearted jealousy. "It looks even better than the pattern. It's perfect."

"It is…nothing to be proud of." He rose and washed his hands of the sticky juice in disgust.

"You always do everything so well, without even trying." She picked up the fruit. "Have you done it before?"

"Of course not." He watched her leave with the orange thing. "What in the devil's name are you doing with it?"

"Putting it out front for everyone to see. I'm going to put a candle inside."

"_Why?_"

"Because I want them to see it. If you're not going to let anyone hear your music, I'm at least going to show them your pumpkin."

He was helpless to do anything by that point. Well, he could have smashed the thing, but Christine would have cried.

He stayed in the bedroom while Christine answered the door for the rest of the evening, confining himself to a wooden chair in a dark corner. Earlier, he had told her that she could participate in the ritual as long as he did not have to do so. Even if it was a holiday where his grotesque appearance might actually be appreciated, he did not want to be gawked at by children. He also kept his mask on in case someone entered their home. And the lasso was always nearby.

Although he attempted to concentrate on his composition, the voices and laughter at the front door interrupted his thoughts. He cringed at every compliment that was directed at the carved fruit.

"Oh!" A woman's voice rang out. "What a great pumpkin design. All that detail. And so scary! I wish I could carve mine that well."

_Idiot._

He did enjoy the happy tone in his Christine's voice. "Hi there!" she greeted the loud intruders. "You must be a vampire. And you're a princess. And you're…um…."

"A salamander," came the high-pitched reply of a boy. (A small boy--not an older, vile one.)

"Oh. I see," Christine replied with a light laugh. "That's unique. Do you want chocolate or bubble gum?"

Although he liked her laughter, he looked forward to the moment when he would receive her full attention again. And that moment came within the next thirty minutes.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" he asked when she entered the room carrying an empty plastic bowl.

"Yes. It was fun. I ran out of candy, but I'm too tired to go buy more."

"Ah. Well, they do not need more." _I need you._

She tilted her head and stared at him. "You kept your mask on all this time?"

"It seemed wise." He fidgeted, knowing that he must look pathetic, hunched over in the dark corner by himself.

She reached down to remove the mask, gently touched the places where it had rubbed his skin raw, and sighed. "I didn't want you to be miserable tonight. I always…this time of year was always fun when I was younger. My dad…Well, never mind. Sometimes I get caught up in something and…and I'm so sorry, Erik. It was probably too soon for all this. Next year, we'll keep the lights off."

He desperately searched for the right words, to say what needed to be said. "Christine." That was always the easiest word.

"Yes?" She stood above him, waiting.

"Christine." He knew how to threaten and mock. He knew how to compliment her, and he'd been learning to turn his morbid sarcasm into more innocuous humor that made her laugh. But it was still difficult to explain himself; _he_ didn't even understand himself. "Chris…tine. I have…never participated…in celebrations…. And this particular day…." He grimaced. "But you should enjoy it if it pleases you."

Before he could react, she was suddenly sitting in his lap. "We'll find a happy medium for the holidays," she stated, resting her head on his shoulder and trying to get comfortable on his skeletal legs. "Some of them are less hectic than others."

"What occurs on the next one?" he asked, ignoring the pain of her leaning against his ribcage.

"We eat," she replied. "Well, I'll cook, and you can eat."

"That is all?"

"Yes," she replied. "The women slave away in the kitchen, and the men eat everything."

"Then I will do so to please you."

"Thanks, Erik," she replied, obviously amused. Christine looked up at his face long enough to make him uncomfortable. "We still need to get you a more comfortable mask for when you go out."

"No one would be able to design it," he stated. "One glance at my face and they would scream, faint, or attempt to find the lavatory. No. I will not do that. Someone would die."

"We could make it, though. Some of the people tonight had really great homemade costumes."

"I do not know. It might be a disaster."

"Why'd you choose this one anyway?" she asked, picking up the black object. She held it up to her cheek and nearly shuddered. "It's so heavy and hard…and cold."

"I found it soon after escaping, and it was perfect at the time. It concealed me in the dark and made certain…tasks much easier." In other words, he hadn't wanted his victims to see him until the last horrifying second.

"Oh. Well…you can keep your old mask, if you want. But you should have another skin-colored one for when we go out together."

"I will consider it." His current one _was_ starting to make his face ache. The downside of sanity was increased sensitivity, whether it be to smell, taste, or pain.

"I'll get the materials."

He could tell she was already making big plans. "And I will have a hand in it, Christine. I do not want my mask to end up resembling your…holiday carving."

"That was mean," she replied with a scoff, trying to stand up and walk away.

"Indeed it was." He grabbed her with both arms so she was unable to escape; _she would never escape._ Christine struggled before finally giving up. "You have a horrible husband, no?"

She grunted in agreement. Within a minute, she had started to doze against his shoulder, perhaps tired from dealing with the irritating intruders. Thankfully, unlike him, his wife never held a grudge for very long.

He never learned to enjoy the holidays as much as she did. They simply had no part in his past; there was never reason for celebration in his childhood. But, over time, he learned to tolerate them and make them nice for her. And even if he despised most of the inane rituals that went along with them—_he_ would light a fire if a bearded, rotund man ever attempted to enter his home through a chimney--at least he now had something to forever celebrate.


	9. Chapter 9

Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed the last chapter. This chapter is a little more serious than the previous ones, but I hope you enjoy it despite the angst.

A big thanks to MadLizzy for editing. And a big thanks to _Kryss LaBryn_ for her help with the mask making.

**Read and Review!!**

Christine was determined to make the new mask before Erik changed his mind. He almost seemed to cling to the piece of black porcelain, as though he were afraid to let go of the past.

She had no plans to make him get rid of the old mask; no one could ever _make_ Erik do anything. She could only present him with alternatives and then allow him to make the decision. Well…maybe she occasionally prodded him in a certain direction, but it was ultimately still his choice.

Two days after Halloween, Christine sat him down on the sofa so that they could talk about various mask materials. "There's latex," she began. "It's realistic-looking. But I've heard it's kind of uncomfortable…."

Erik grimaced, looking as though he wanted to escape the conversation. She held his hand to keep him in place. "Latex is…never mind." He shrugged. "Do as you wish."

"Latex what?" she asked.

"It…Well, I would say that it makes my skin worse than it already is. But I am not sure that is possible."

"You have an allergy to it?"

"It is a mild irritant…as though little insects are nibbling at my skin." He waved his hand to the side. "I have been through worse, though. Do as you wish."

"Erik." She shook her head. "I'm not going to ask you to wear something that's even more painful. The entire point is to make you something comfortable." She touched one of the healing sores on his face. "If it were up to me, you wouldn't wear one at all."

After mistakenly saying the last sentence, she realized that Erik would either storm off to play the violin for about twenty minutes or mock her. He was in a fairly good mood that day, and so it was the latter.

"That is an excellent way to keep people away," he began. "If I walked down the street without a mask, the entire city would be desolate within five minutes. Small children would wet themselves and become too traumatized to ever speak again. People would dive off bridges and gouge out their eyes to get the image out of their mind. A wonderful idea, my dear! Why did I not think of it sooner?"

She ignored his dramatics and trudged forward. "Maybe plaster would work. It's not too hard to make. It's not completely realistic-looking, but that doesn't matter as much. At night, no one would notice."

"And I will only go out at night," he added.

"Cloth would also be comfortable, I guess. But I don't know how to make a cloth mask realistic at all…"

"I had a cloth mask when I was a child. It looked wretched; I will not wear it again."

"Plaster, then," she replied. "It shouldn't be too uncomfortable. If it is, maybe we can line it with something softer." She could tell the topic was making him edgy, even a little angry, and she didn't want to push it. It was time to change the subject to something less serious. "Hmm. I'm going to buy a whole turkey for Thanksgiving this year. Then we'll have leftovers."

The lines of irritation in Erik's face disappeared, and his lips twitched upward in amusement. "A live turkey?"

"No. A frozen one."

"Ah. I suppose it is easier to consume if you do not have to kill it yourself."

She wrinkled her nose. "I didn't…really want to have to think about that."

"Exactly."

Christine blinked. "Anyway…I'm just…I'm going to buy a turkey and some potatoes and corn and pie."

Erik nodded and thoughtfully added, "Buy chocolate pie. Never pumpkin."

* * *

He could have made the mask by himself; it was not an impossible task. But, for whatever reason, he wanted her there. If he had locked himself in a room and created the mask by himself, it would have put him in a dark mood.

Over the next week, she bought plaster bandages, plaster of Paris, along with some ordinary items such as paper towel and a magnifying mirror. She left them in a corner of the kitchen, and he began to stare at the pile of supplies with anxiety. Several times, he considered telling her that he had changed his mind. But the look of disappointment on her face might kill him.

The day finally came.

They were peacefully lying in bed together on a Saturday morning. She was curled up against his chest, and his arms were wrapped around her bare back. During the first nights they had slept within the same bed, in London, he had been terrified of accidentally crushing or suffocating her during sleep. People had a terrible habit of dying when they were near him.

But not his Christine. She was beautifully resilient! If she became uncomfortable, even when sleeping, she'd wriggle. He always allowed her more room to breathe and occasionally checked her pulse. He wanted her to be alive forever.

The bedroom was warm, very dark, and filled with her scent. An airplane was softly buzzing overhead. Christine yawned and stretched her legs. He felt her kiss his neck and shoulders and wondered if she wanted to…take part in morning pleasures for a second time. To his disappointment, she spoke instead. "Can we make your new mask today? I have everything now."

He tensed. "We could wait."

"Why should we wait?" The bed creaked as she sat up. "Can I turn on a light?"

"Give me a moment," he replied, glad that the second question had saved him from answering the first. He threw on his shirt and buttoned it within ten seconds. "You may."

She switched on the lamp and blinked as her eyes adjusted. "Why can't we make it today?" she asked. "I'm off work."

"Perhaps I am busy," he replied.

"Oh. Busy with what?"

_Women were so damned curious._ "With Erik's music--my music!"

She rested a hand on his shoulder and tilted her head. "Are you okay?"

_Are you okay? _That meant, _Are you sane?_

"Yes," he replied, and it was the truth. "I merely…I do not know how this mask will work."

"Oh. Well…if we make mistakes, we'll try again a second time. It's not a big deal."

That wasn't what was bothering him, but he did not know how to describe his fear. Perhaps the feeling was senseless and juvenile. "We will make the mask," he relented. As a reward, he received a long kiss.

"I'm tired of seeing you suffer in the other mask," she declared, her face scrunching up in disdain. "Sometimes…I want to smash it."

"It would be best if you did not do that," he replied. He wasn't sure how he would react.

"I won't. But…Erik! Let's make a new one and see how it turns out." She hopped out of bed and tugged on his hand, perhaps before realizing she was partially unclothed. Christine turned slightly red, threw on an old sweatshirt and jeans, and finally managed to coax him out of bed. He considered tying her down for a day or two, but that would only exacerbate the problem.

They entered the kitchen, and he sat down in the chair nearest to the supplies. Knowing the affair would be messy, he wore only the white shirt with a pair of trousers. Christine wrapped towels around his upper torso. The instructions had suggested wearing a plastic garbage bag, but there was simply no way in hell. He'd throw the shirt away if it became necessary.

He felt more vulnerable than he preferred--a bit of a test subject. Christine was the only one who could get away with putting him in such a position.

"Erik?" Her voice was hesitant.

"Yes?"

"We should probably take our wedding rings off so they don't get ruined."

He had _never_ taken his off; he liked to think that the same was true for her. "It is mine," he stated.

"But we don't want the plaster to dry on them. I'll put them somewhere safe until we're done."

After several seconds, he reluctantly pulled his off, and his finger felt empty. She left with the rings, and he wondered if his sanity would be intact once this process was over. He wondered this even more when Christine returned and said, "Hmm. We need to protect your hair from the plaster."

"As though there is even enough hair to protect," he muttered.

She stroked the dark wisps. "The directions say to put a plastic bag on your head."

"No! No!"

"But--"

"No! We will work around it or not do this at all. There is hardly any hair there. Perhaps we should make me a wig as well, eh?"

She sighed. "All right, Erik. We'll work around it. Maybe I can wet it down." She picked up a kohl pencil. "Where do you want the mask to cover?"

"My face."

"I was thinking that you could be more comfortable if part of your mouth was uncovered."

"My mouth is as horrid as the rest of me, Christine. If need be, we will shape the mask for breathing room. But I will not leave my twisted, bloated excuse for a mouth revealed for all the world to see!" A tension was building between them. His annoyance was growing closer to actual anger, and he feared that he would say something regrettable soon. But it was _his_ face—not hers.

Christine did not reply to his outburst. She began to draw the outline of where the mask would go, making circles near his eyes. Perhaps it would have been wise for him to make sure that she did it correctly, but that would have required the mirror. Only after she had covered his face with the first layer of bandages would he look into a mirror.

She took out a container of Vaseline, and he grimaced. "It's so the plaster won't stick," she explained. Her voice was cautious now, as though she could sense his mood. "Will you let me?"

He inhaled and exhaled. Somewhere in his mind, he knew it was a miracle that she could do this without vomiting…without even paling now. "Yes," he finally replied, tilting his head against the back of the chair.

Dabbing some of it onto her fingers, she coated his face with the oily substance. At first he was still aggravated, but there was something soothing about her fingers rubbing against his dry, brittle corpse skin. His muscles relaxed, and his heartbeat slowed. He closed his eyes.

"Are you okay?" she asked. Her fingers ran up over his cheeks and to his temples.

"You have killed me," he replied.

"Poor Erik."

"Indeed."

The tension faded after that, perhaps because he was able to think of the task as a project rather than a degrading situation. Christine dipped a strip of the two-inch wide plaster bandages into a bowl of cool water. She squeezed off the excess water and then laid the bandage over his face before repeating the process. "When the first layer is finished, give me a mirror," he commanded.

She did so, and he gave her directions as she added five more layers to his face, laying some bandages vertically and some horizontally. Sometimes her hands slightly shook, and he used his own fingers to make sure the bandages stayed smooth and were placed properly. After he deemed it thick enough, they let the mask set. Once Christine tapped her nail against it and determined that the mold had dried enough, she attempted to loosen it from the back. He wriggled his ugly face as much as his distorted muscles would allow, and the blank mask slowly slid off of him.

She laid the mask on newspaper to completely dry and wiped the Vaseline off the plaster. He searched for something with which to cleanse his face until Christine handed him a wet wash cloth.

His hygiene had become part of his daily ritual since living with her. During his revenge spree, he had barely been sane enough to remember to care for his teeth once a week and to wash himself a few times per month. He had no concern for his own wellbeing, save for the need to stay healthy enough to carry out his revenge.

As she began to throw some of the waste into the garbage can, he stared at the white mask. His mind began to envision the features that he might be able to add to it. The perfectionist in him--the one that spent days composing without stop or that murdered ten people in one mansion without leaving a drop of evidence—desired to design a bit of a masterpiece.

He was eternally grateful when, two hours later, Christine asked, "Do you want to put the features on it? I'd help, but I'm not sure what you want."

"I will do it," he replied. He placed a towel on his knee and propped the dried mask on top of it. After mixing the plaster of Paris with cold water, he used the substance to create a nose, cheekbones, and the basic contours of the human face. At some point, he made his wife sit across from him so that he could have a model of a normal (no—perfect!) visage. He sanded the plaster when he needed merely slight effects and grooves.

When he was finished, he stared at the mask and then up at Christine. No, it would never look as good as her face. He'd been foolish for even thinking that was possible. But it would have to do. "I will paint it when it dries," he murmured. He placed the towel and mask on the table and leaned away from them.

A weariness settled over him. Now that the mask was nearly finished, he could not think of it as an impersonal project any longer. The mask was to be his new companion. And _he_ was not very good at allowing others into his life, especially when his black mask seemed so much more familiar.

"It looks great," Christine said, coming up behind him and wrapping an arm around his neck. Both silently stared down at the new mask. "Were you serious about hair? I've found wigs uncomfortable…."

"No. False hair would be repulsive." He paused. "But perhaps…perhaps a hat would do."

"It might keep your head warm this winter. Well, you're never really cold. But I am. Maybe I'll get a hat, too."

"If my wife wishes for a hat, then she shall have one."

To get his mind off other matters, he had her sing for him that afternoon. Her range had returned, and he was thankful that their excursion through London hadn't destroyed her voice. Most of her auditions were over, but a few still remained. He had not been to one yet; they had always been during the daytime on dreadfully bright, sunny days. Without knowing the layouts for the colleges, it would have been difficult to hide himself and to crawl from one place to the next. Someday she would sing at night for him.

Although her voice brought him peace, the mask remained on his mind. He felt a need to finish the damn thing and see what great revelations came with it. Hours later, he returned to the kitchen and touched the plaster with his index finger. It was still not dry, and he would likely have to wait until tomorrow to paint it and to add varnish.

Christine was nearby boiling a beef soup. He noticed that she was wearing her ring again, and he dashed into their bedroom to retrieve his. When he returned with the ring securely on his finger, a bowl of soup was waiting for him on the table. The soup was easier for him to consume than many other dishes because it required less chewing, and she always put extra salt in his for flavor.

Christine was sitting down to eat, and he joined her. As she began to talk about her auditions, his eyes drifted back toward the mask. He shifted. "It is staring at me," he said before he could stop himself.

She stopped speaking, glancing at the mask and then back at him. "Yeah," she said with a little laugh. "Masks do that sometimes." She continued to study him. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes. I believe so." He continued to eat, ignoring the mask. "The soup is very strong."

"Hm. I didn't put in any more salt than I usually do. Do you want another bowl?"

"No. It is fine." The fluorescent kitchen lights hit her at a delightful angle, illuminating her hair and adding a sparkle to her eyes. "You are very beautiful," he said.

She blinked and looked down at her sweatshirt. "All week long, I wear nice outfits to work and put on makeup and everything. And you tell me I look beautiful _now_?" She laughed. "Thanks, Erik."

He didn't laugh, though. The colors in the room were very bright, the food was extra strong, and she was especially beautiful. He was not sure why. "You are," was all he could say.

Her smile faded, and she stared at him. "Thank you," she softly replied. Christine kept an eye on him for the rest of the evening. He wished that he could explain himself to her, but it took time to sort it all out in his mind.

That night, he remained in bed until she fell asleep. It would likely be a night where sleep did not easily come to him, though. After rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling for an hour or so, he felt the need to get up. Careful not to awaken his wife, he climbed out of bed and went into the kitchen. A few slivers of light from the streetlamps shone through the windows, and ghostly shadows flitted around the kitchen as cars passed.

He sat down at the kitchen table and picked up the new mask. He turned it over in his bony hands before placing it over his face. Yes, it would likely be lighter and more comfortable.

Masks.

They had not allowed him a mask in prison. Not ever. He had begged a prison guard for one at the beginning of his sentence. _I need it to stay alive _he had said. The guard had ignored him, and he'd been left to cover his face with his hands day after day, staring between the cracks of fingers to make sure no one was getting too close. He had nearly had his neck broken during one attack, only surviving because of basic fighting skills learned in India…and perhaps an unnatural strength that he had possessed since birth.

Sometimes he wondered if his strange abilities had come from _Falcon's_ chemicals. He was not aware of any relatives that possessed his intelligence, speed, or agility. Then again, he'd never heard of any victims of chemical poisoning having his unique talents. Perhaps he was a freak amongst the freaks. Perhaps it didn't matter.

But yes. _Masks._ He remembered trying to make one out of a sheet and getting beaten over the head with a flashlight for it. _What hadn't they given him a goddamned mask! _His face had nearly started a prison riot, and he'd been put into solitary confinement and it--_Why the hell was he recalling this now?_

He hopped up and plucked his black mask off the table in the living room. After returning to the kitchen, he placed his old mask beside his new one and stared down at them. Both masks stared back.

The black mask had transformed him into a shadow, without the ability to feel or care or remember. And even if he was not completely insane now, a part of him still wanted to be the shadow. It was so much easier to be the shadow.

The new mask reeked of clarity and sanity. He had experienced a moment of strong sanity in the kitchen that day, when Christine had never looked more beautiful. Now he was suffering for it with vivid memories. Sanity made him remember.

He heard her footsteps before her voice.

"Erik? What are you doing in here?"

He tensed. "Examining the mask."

"Oh. How is it?"

"Fine. Comfortable." He paused. "You should go back to sleep."

"Are you okay? It's really late."

"Yes. I was merely restless."

"Do you need anything?" she asked.

"No. You should go to bed. I am fine."

"All right," she reluctantly replied. "I hope you can get some sleep, though." She kissed the top of his head and left. "Good night."

He had really wanted her to stay. She should have known that! _Why had she left him with his thoughts?_

No. No. She wasn't a mind reader. He was simply an idiot. And now he was sitting alone in the dark, remembering wretched things, wishing he were insane so he would not remember them, and knowing that he had to stay sane or risk losing her.

He sat there a long while trying to figure out what he was supposed to do, but he never came up with a good answer. Finally, he stood and went into the bedroom. After a second's hesitation, he climbed into bed and rested his head on her pillow, pressing himself against her warm body and burying his face in her neck.

She jumped and turned on the light. "Erik?"

"I frightened you." He started to move away from her.

"No. I was half-asleep. You just surprised me." She looked into his eyes. "Is everything all right? Tell me what's going on. What's wrong?"

"I wanted to touch you."

"To touch me?"

"Only to be next to you."

He started to turn away and rest on his own pillow, nearly nauseous with shame. A hand grabbed his upper arm. "Come here, Erik." She pulled him toward her, and he was soon wrapped in her arms with his head back on her pillow. Relief and love quickly overcame the humiliation. His muscles relaxed, and the memories were only memories again.

"Is it the mask?" she softly asked into his ear. "If that's what's upsetting you, don't wear it."

"No. I will wear it, Christine. I will."

"Tell me what's wrong," she said, her palms gently rubbing his back.

"Nothing is wrong," he replied. "I love you." He was too tired and comfortable to explain any better than that. The only fact he knew for certain now was that he could not push her away and keep his newly acquired sanity.

If his sanity was a newly planted seed, then Christine was the soil—no…and not fertilizer, either…sunlight seemed cliché but perhaps it fit her best--Ah well. He would think of a better metaphor in the morning.

* * *

Christine spent most of the night wondering what in the world was wrong with Erik. He didn't seem violent or crazed or even angry. In fact, he was subdued; maybe that's what disturbed her. He only quietly slept in her arms for the rest of the night, occasionally murmuring in his sleep, and she would have enjoyed the tenderness if she hadn't been worrying over his sanity.

The next morning, she asked, "Do you want me to stay home from work today? I can call in sick." She was nearly too tired to go, anyway.

"No," he replied. "I am fine. I do not need to be monitored like an infant."

"I know. But I won't leave if you're upset…if you want to talk."

"I am perfectly fine." He kissed her forehead. His eyes seemed sane. "Enjoy your work, for you have very few weeks of it left."

She ended up going to work but spent the entire day thinking about him. Finally, she called home. Even though Erik wouldn't answer, she could leave a message telling him to answer the phone when she called a second time. To her dismay, though, the machine didn't pick up, and the phone endlessly rang. She suddenly remembered unplugging the machine to vacuum yesterday. _Argh! Stupid, Christine! _

He'd acted almost scared last night. _What if he was going to hurt himself? What if she'd pushed the new mask on him too suddenly? What if she'd ruined his sanity? What if…?_

Before she completely lost her mind, Christine got off work two hours early. Thank God no policemen were out that day, or she would have wound up with a speeding ticket. Hundreds of horrible possibilities raced through her mind, and she berated herself for not staying home that day and taking care of him. Her heart was pounding as she jumped out of her car and flew to the entrance of their apartment. She threw open the front door.

Erik was sitting on the couch with a pen and sheet of paper. "You are early," he said.

She stood there for several seconds, staring at him and panting. "I…there wasn't much to do today," she choked out. Actually, there'd been a lot of work. "I tried to call you, but you didn't answer."

"I dislike the phone." He stood. "Are you well? You are breathing rather heavily, and your face is flushed. If a moron at work gave you a disease, I will introduce him to the Ebola virus."

"No. I'm fine." She stepped forward and hugged him. "What…what did you do today?"

"I put strings on my mask."After releasing her from the embrace, he plucked the new mask off the table and held it up. Two black threads dangled from the sides of it.

She hadn't gotten much sleep, and the last two days had been a little emotional. She'd spent her entire day worrying over what horrible thing Erik was doing, and he'd _put strings on his mask_. So as soon as he said that, Christine burst into tears and started to laugh.

Erik stared at her in uncharacteristic surprise. He pressed his cold fingers to her forehead. "Are you sure you are well?"

She shook her head and managed to compose herself. "You just acted so strangely yesterday and last night. And you were kind of quiet this morning. I thought…well…."

"You thought I was going mad?" He chuckled. "I suppose it must have appeared…But no. I am fairly sane. A bit too sane sometimes, do you understand? Sanity can be a sadist. But I am far from insanity."

"Good." Her heartbeat slowed, and she held onto him for awhile. "Erik? Could you…If your mind does feel funny, would you tell me? I promise I won't run or anything like that. But if I know, maybe we can work through it early. It would help if you would…let me in a little."

"If someone dies, you will know I have lost my mind." She looked up and gave him a half-hearted glare. Erik sighed. "Yes. I will try to tell you. It does not happen very often. Even when I am angry, I always know who you are…where I am…."

"I'm grateful for that," she murmured. "I always knew you'd be fine."

Erik shifted, always becoming uncomfortable when the conversation became too focused upon him. "Perhaps I should try the mask on now. Unless it is a disaster, I will paint it later. But I wish to see your lovely face while I am doing that." He turned his back toward her and started to hold the new mask up to his face. His hands fumbled with the strings as he attempted to tie them; they were narrower than the previous strings. "Christine?"

"Yes?"

"Assist me."

She reached up to help him tie the new mask, their hands gently brushing against each other in an unanticipated act of trust and intimacy. Even after it was tied, though, he didn't turn around.

"Can I see?" she finally asked.

He slowly faced her. "Is it better?"

Her heart jumped. She reached out and touched the false cheek. "It's better than the black one."

"But it is still a mask," he muttered. "Merely an article of clothing."

"But Erik. That's all it should be. It's only a mask."

He seemed to ponder this for a moment. "The mask is not Erik."

"It's not," she agreed.

"I am Erik."

"You are."


	10. Chapter 10

Hi, guys! Thank you for all your lovely comments about the last chapter. I saw some new readers, too, which is always encouraging.

My beta is missing in action. That leaves you all with one of two choices. You can either go find her and drag her back here to edit this chapter. Or you can simply read this chapter without betaing. I'm up for either, but the first option does sound more fun…. ;)

**Read and Review!!**

Christine stood by the front door and admired her husband.

There he stood in his new mask and hat. Erik had painted the mask an extremely pale peach so that it didn't greatly contrast with his hands. He'd added a few light shades of red and shadows as well, using her face as a model for his design. While shopping in a department store, she'd found a black hat that darkened his face. It was something of a cross between an olden day fedora and a wide-brimmed Australian outdoors hat. The suit was still too large; it was impossible to find clothing that fit his frame.

But her pride didn't come from the fact that he was more appealing to the eye. She was proud that he was making at least a slight attempt to become part of society.

Erik stared at himself in a hand mirror, shifting from one foot to the other and wiggling his fingers. "Perhaps…only a short walk," he stated. It was the first time that he was going outside in his new mask.

"Yeah. Maybe around the block or something," she agreed. She'd been trying not to make a huge deal about it; Erik worked better when less attention was focused upon him.

They went for a simple walk together. It was chilly, and few other people were outside. She glanced up at him and noted that it was difficult to see the mask when the lights were dim. His yellow eyes were the only part of his face that seemed familiar to her.

Most people would probably still be afraid of Erik once they got a closer look at him; many had reason to be. She knew how far he had come in this last year, though. His posture was a little straighter, his eyes held more clarity, and he held her hand without awkwardness.

The walk was an overall success. Over the next few evenings, they took several more strolls without any incidents. Erik never said anything about the mask or the hat, but he always put them in a tidy little pile on the table after they returned home. Sometimes he dusted off the hat with his hand or inspected the mask for cracks. She had the feeling that anyone who tried to touch either object would wind up with a severe injury. They were definitely _his_ now.

Christine finally decided to see if Erik would be comfortable wearing the mask in a more public place. "There's a play I kind of wanted to see," she began over dinner several nights later. Erik glanced up at her, expression unreadable as he chewed a piece of bread. "You might like it. Um…there's this man in it who does away with people so that he can be king…. "

Erik swallowed, and his lip twitched upwards. "Is this _man's _name Richard?"

She smiled. "Yes!"

Erik chuckled. "Believe me, my dear. When one's childhood is spent locked in a room for hours with nothing but books, one will finally end up reading the majority of Shakespeare's works."

"Oh. I read a few of them in school. So…do you want to see the play with me?"

"If the interior of the building is dark and spacious, I will see the play."

She managed to get tickets for rows near the back of the theater that were away from everybody else. Erik refused to remove his hat, but, luckily, no one sitting behind them. At some point, Christine was able to sit back in the cushioned seat and enjoy the performances. She side-glanced Erik a few times and thought he looked content with the slightly morbid play.

The only moment of tension came at the end as they were following a line of people out of the theater. A middle-aged man was beside them, scowling and looking over the heads of the other people. "Got the time?" the man asked after a moment, squinting up toward Erik in the hallway lights.

A silence passed in which she grew nervous; no one really ever spoke to Erik. By asking her husband for the time, the man had verified that Erik wasn't an invisible ghost. Finally, a soft and even "no" came from behind her husband's mask.

The guy muttered, "Thanks, anyway." Finding a break in the crowd, he quickly walked away. She took Erik's hand and relaxed, taking it as a sign that he could handle certain situations.

"The idiot should purchase a watch."

"I know," she replied, unable to hide her smile. Erik grumbled awhile longer, but she distracted him from the event by asking him if he enjoyed the play. He calmed down and critiqued the actors all the way back to their car. She hoped none of the actors were nearby to hear him….

Overall, he'd handled the evening well. As long as he didn't have to directly interact with people, he could stand being around them.

How would he handle her first rejection letter?

She wondered this several days later as she held the single sheet of paper, feeling a little stinging sensation near her heart. _We are sorry to inform you that…There were many qualified applicants this year…Blah blah blah…._

It hurt a little, no denying that. Did she tell Erik? On the one hand, keeping secrets from her husband never turned out well. She also sort of wanted a little comfort from him. On the other hand, she didn't want any admissions officials to die.

Christine pondered the matter throughout the evening. In the end, it didn't matter. Erik noticed that something was wrong, and she certainly wasn't going to lie to him.

"Your eyes are sad tonight," he stated. "Who has upset my wife?"

She hesitated. "I was rejected from a school. I got a letter today."

"Let me see it."

She pulled the letter out of her purse and handed it to him. "It's not a big deal," she said, sitting beside him on the sofa. "I didn't think I was going to get into that one anyway."

His fingers crinkled the paper. "They are despicable swine."

"More letters will come," she reassured him.

"Perhaps I should send them a reply."

"No, Erik. I don't want you to do that."

"But they should be aware of what morons they are—and how lucky they are to still have use of their arms and legs after this atrocity."

She was starting to worry. "It's not a big deal. We'll wait for the next one."

"But they should be--"

"No, Erik!" she finally exclaimed. "I-I just…I want a hug!"

He closed his mouth and stared at her before saying, "You may always have that." His voice was softer, and he opened his arms to her. She quickly accepted the embrace. "But I am not sure how this solves the problem…or punishes them for their stupidity."

"It doesn't solve it," she said. "It just feels nice. Let's wait for more letters before we do anything."

He grumbled something that she hoped was an agreement.

She received one more rejection before she got three acceptances. Throughout the process, she managed to prevent Erik from becoming too angry, mainly by controlling her own emotions. Several years ago, she might have sniffled over the rejections and then called Meg for a pity party. If Erik saw her getting upset, though, he'd declare war on the American education system. Plus, it all seemed a little less important now than it had back then. A lot less important, really.

"So," she began once all the colleges had responded, laying the acceptance letters out on the kitchen table "Which one should I choose?"

Erik pointed at the one on the left. "This is the best."

"It's also the most expensive."

"My wife only gets the best. And why did you ask me if you did not want my response?" He answered his own question before she was able to do so. "You asked because you know that your loving husband is always right."

"Oh, Erik."

In the end, she did end up choosing that school. For one thing, it wasn't _that_ much more expensive. It was a decent liberal arts school with a solid music program that included the opportunity to study with professional singers--although it was unlikely that any of them were as good as Erik. The driving distance wasn't unbearable, which would be nice during the winter weather. Erik declared that she wasn't allowed to use the bus system because 'some idiot might try to kidnap her.'

She kissed him on the top of the head and didn't dare state the obvious.

Thanksgiving passed by without any problems. She stayed in the kitchen and prepared the meal for the first time since dining with her father; Raoul had hired a cook to prepare it when they were together. The potatoes, yams, and cranberry sauce were all easy for Erik to eat. And, of course, he had a chocolate pie that he vigilantly guarded all day. Thank God they'd had no unsuspecting dinner guests there to try and take a slice of it.

It was the next day, though, that gave her a surprise. As she climbed out of bed, Christine remembered that it was Black Friday. Erik was still lying down with his head on the pillow, appearing relaxed enough for her to tease him a little. She always had to be careful doing that.

"It's time to get ready for the next holiday," she began. "You're going to have to write me a long Christmas list of everything you want. It'd better be done by the end of this week."

She expected him to give a Scrooge-esque reply or to simply scoff and turn on his side. Instead, Erik didn't say anything for a moment. Not wanting to push it, she shrugged and started to head for the door. And then he spoke. "I do wish for something. It is ridiculous, really."

Christine turned around. "What is it, Erik?" She expected him to ask for something that was related to his music. For the second time, her assumptions were wrong.

It took him another few seconds to speak. "The last sixteen years were very blurry," he began. "A jumble of nothing. I was occasionally given newspapers in prison, but I remember little about them. And I did not care about society after I escaped--unless mankind had destroyed itself in a nuclear war, in which case I would celebrate. My mind resembled that mushy orange dish you cooked last night. You see, I know the world before prison. I vaguely recall the end of the Cold War. But then the world stops, you understand?"

"I can understand that," she murmured. "It'd be like…leaving earth for sixteen years."

"Yes. Something like that. Christine, I want a book that will explain the last two decades. Culture, wars, governments, technology. I did not really care before, but…I feel the need to bring a bit of order to the madness."

"I'd be happy to get you that," she replied, her heart fluttering a little. She loved that Erik was intelligent, that he wanted to know and understand the world even after all mankind had done to him.

"Yes. If you would do that…." He rested his head back onto the pillow; a small yawn escaped his lips. It was painful to think about what he might have accomplished under different circumstances.

She didn't want to wait until Christmas to give him his books. On Monday, after work, she stopped by a medium-sized, non-chain bookstore. The inside was cozy but a little disorganized, and she wandered through the aisles in search of the modern history section. After about ten minutes, she found a couple of books but wasn't sure if they were up to Erik's standards.

If only there were a way that he could browse books for himself.

She realized that there was a way. The Internet! He could learn everything on it--well hopefully not _everything_, but it'd be a way for him to reconnect with the world. With the new money, they could afford it.

She went ahead and bought one book for Erik, along with a dessert cookbook (for Erik's pleasure) and a novel that she'd wanted to read. Once at home, she told him her idea as she handed him his book. "You've used computers, right?" she asked.

"I have used them for my mission. Not for recreational purposes."

"Well, it'll be useful for school anyway. We won't get a bunch of fancy gadgets or anything. Only a new computer and the Internet."

"If you wish for it, then you will have it." He was looking down at his book.

"I'm sure you'll use it, too, Erik. But…try not to get into fights with people online." She giggled.

"I do not wish to speak to anyone on a computer. People are no less vile over the network than they are in reality." Erik opened his book.

Christine plopped down beside him on the sofa, startling him away from his reading. "Anything you want to do, tell me," she said, feeling excited for no specific reason. "I'm not always sure what you're ready to do. But if you want to go somewhere or take a class or anything—tell me!" Erik stared at her and shifted, appearing uncomfortable. "But you don't _have_ to do anything," she quickly added. "Only when you want to."

He stared at her for several more seconds, his head tilted. Erik then opened his arm so that she could scoot closer to him. After doing so, she rested against his shoulder and read with him. The only brief disturbance occurred when she started softly snickering at a past presidential scandal. Erik grunted and turned the page.

* * *

Since the birth of his daughter, life had seemed kinder to Gavin.

It wasn't that all his problems magically disappeared, or that he and his wife completely stopped arguing. Somehow, though, seeing Rosalinda for the first time made him want to stay put. After witnessing some of the horrors in the world, Gavin felt it was his duty to protect his two girls. And he loved them.

Shortly after Rose's birth, he'd taken a fulltime job writing articles for the entertainment and cultural sections of a local newspaper. He'd turned down the jobs that involved traveling and danger, although he didn't count them out forever.

He also continued to put time into his book and was still struggling over what to reveal. It was hard to write Erik out of it, mostly because the notion of Gavin, Christine, and Raoul taking down _Falcon_ by themselves was a little unbelievable. Frankly, the book needed a superhero. But all Gavin had was an ambiguous antihero who could still be tried for murder if too much information ever came out.

When not working or writing, Gavin's time was spent with Marisol and the baby. Rose kept them up at night, but she wasn't too fussy during the day. She'd gotten Marisol's eyes and cheekbones along with his nose and mouth. That week, she'd smiled for the first time.

"She smiled at you first. That's not fair," said Marisol with a fake frown. They were both standing over the crib.

"It's because I look funnier than you," Gavin explained.

Marisol scoffed and wiggled her tongue at the baby, trying to make her smile again. Rose only stared. Gavin puffed out his cheeks and made weird gurgling noises in the back of his throat. Rose smiled. Marisol attempted several more faces.

It was happy and perfect. Two corny parents making faces at the most beautiful baby in the whole wide world. It was wonderful.

It was terrifying how it all nearly fell apart within the course of a day.

In mid-December, Marisol announced that she was going to take Rose and pay a visit to her mother. "Mom's always complaining that she doesn't get to see her granddaughter," Marisol explained, sounding a little exasperated. "We'll be back by tomorrow morning. Unless you want to come?"

"I'll hang out here," replied Gavin. "It'll give you girls some time alone." After she'd left with Rose the following morning, he called Christine. Gavin's interactions with the couple had been limited to a few phone calls over the last few months. Christine had always sounded in good spirits, and so he didn't worry too much. Still, he thought it might be nice to visit them around the holidays.

"You're welcome to come over," Christine said on the phone. "It's been awhile. And bring some baby pictures." She lowered her voice. "I also want to show you something and see what you think."

"Does it have to do with Erik?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Is it scary?"

"Gavin!" she chided. Christine lowered her voice to a whisper. "He's doing really well. But don't tell him I told you that; sometimes he'll get really indignant."

"My lips are sealed," he replied with a laugh. "I'll be over in an hour or so."

Overall, it was a calm and ordinary visit…or at least as ordinary as it could be, considering the circumstances. The big surprise, the one that Christine had hinted at, was Erik's mask. Gavin had blinked up at Erik's face, not quite sure what he was seeing for a few seconds. Erik had glared at him, and Gavin quickly turned his head.

"Doesn't it look nice?" asked Christine, opening the conversation. "We made it together."

"Wow," said Gavin, cautiously and quickly glancing up again. "Yeah. It looks great…really realistic. More comfortable, too. "

Erik silently sat beside Christine, shifting on the sofa cushions. Christine spoke again. "Did you bring pictures of Rose?"

With fatherly pride, he showed them some of the recent baby pictures. Erik didn't say much throughout the visit, but the atmosphere was more relaxed than it had been the previous time. Christine was more open and animated. She hadn't abandoned all caution, but she definitely wasn't tiptoeing over eggshells. Erik didn't twitch, mutter, or glare as often; he mainly sat there and watched his wife. During a conversation about the weather, Erik even said, "Indeed."

Gavin was pleased by the time he left. His fears concerning Christine's safety had nearly disappeared. Was Erik still capable of killing someone? Yeah, probably. Would he ever hurt Christine? That seemed extremely unlikely at this point.

When Gavin got home, he headed for the kitchen to grab a soda, figuring he'd spend the rest of the afternoon watching college football. As he opened the fridge, he heard footsteps and turned around. Marisol was standing there, her arms folded.

He blinked in surprise and then smiled. "Hey. I thought you were going to your mother's."

Marisol was silent for several seconds, looking him in the eye. Finally, she spoke. "Mom called the cell phone and told me that one of her neighbors was having medical problems. She volunteered to watch their children while they went to the hospital. I didn't want to be in the way, so I came back."

"Oh. That's a shame," Gavin replied. "Maybe you can try again next weekend." He turned back to the fridge.

"How was Christine?"

"She was…." Gavin froze, feeling a lump form in his stomach as he slowly turned back around.

The muscles in Marisol's face were strained, and her eyes were narrowed. "Coming back, I saw your car turn off on Blackberry Street and followed you. I thought maybe you were going to lunch or something. Or maybe, deep down, I knew…. Whatever. It doesn't matter. You drove to her apartment. I saw her on the porch, Gavin!"

He swallowed. "Did you see anyone else there?"

"What kind of stupid question is that? I saw you and _her _there! If Rose hadn't been with me, I would have pounded on the door and let Christine know exactly what I think of her!"

"It's not what you're thinking," he said, stupidly.

She shook her head in disgust. "Sneaking around to see Christine behind my back isn't what I think it is? You've been seeing her all this time, haven't you? Since you've come back, right?"

"I have been visiting her," he admitted. Gavin reached out a hand, but Marisol back away. "But she's only a friend. I was concerned about something. There's nothing there but friendship."

"Then why is it a big secret? Why can't you just tell me you wanted to see your college friend? Why not invite me sometimes?"

"Marisol. Honey. That's…it's very hard to understand." She threw up her hands and turned to walk away. "Marisol!"

"Leave me alone!" she snapped. "I can't even look at you right now."

Months ago, Gavin and Christine had discussed how to explain Erik to other people. Both knew that it would probably be impossible to keep him a secret forever. They also agreed that, with the exception of a few jerks, most people would have enough empathy to accept the idea of a deformed man living amongst them. People would not, however, easily accept a murderer.

With these thoughts in mind, he chased after Marisol in a desperate attempt to explain. It had been his intention to wait a year or so before telling her any of this. But he was afraid she was going to pack a suitcase, take Rose, and leave him. "Listen to me!" he exclaimed. "Please listen to me for a moment."

"Leave me alone." Tears were streaming down her cheeks as she entered their bedroom. "I don't want to talk about it now. I don't even know what to think. All you've been doing this last year is lying!"

"I know. I have. It hasn't been right. But you have to listen to me. This entire thing--it has to do with Christine's husband."

She looked up at him. "Oh. Wonderful, Gavin. Does he participate?"

"_No!_ Jesus. That's not even…No." Gavin ran a hand over his eyes. At least he had her attention now. "He is severely…" Gavin motioned toward his face, "…disfigured and doesn't come out much. It's a very, very delicate situation. I'm trying to help them keep their privacy. I'm being a friend by making sure that they're getting along okay. That's it. That's all that's going on."

Marisol shook her head and stared at the floor. "You're a journalist. You can come up with something better than that."

"No! You have to believe that. I love you; I never meant to hurt you. But this is the truth now. I'm hoping that you'll keep it between us."

"You want me to believe a pretty girl like Christine broke up with an attractive, rich guy to marry a disfigured man who never leaves the house?"

"Yes!" he exclaimed, ignoring the shallowness of her statement. "I want you to believe that because it's the truth." He tried to take her hand again, but she pulled away.

"I don't even know what to believe anymore." She sat down on the bed and looked up at him. "Why don't you introduce me to your mysterious friends?"

Gavin hesitated. "I'll introduce you to Christine. Not her husband."

Marisol scowled. "Why not her husband? Let me guess. He's disfigured _and_ invisible."

"Because he doesn't like to be around people. He's been through a lot. He's…not a friendly guy."

"How can I believe anything you're saying?"

His head was beginning to ache, starting in the front and spreading toward the back. "Well, this is why I didn't tell you. You won't even make an effort to understand."

"You're an ass. Leave me alone."

"Marisol…" He tried to put a hand on her shoulder. "I love--"

"Get out! Leave me alone." She turned her back to him and curled up on the bed.

"We need to talk about this later," he stated. Marisol didn't respond, and Gavin retreated from the bedroom and went into the living room.

Even though he would be sleeping on the couch, at least she wasn't leaving...yet. He was even more relieved that Marisol hadn't tried to knock on Christine and Erik's front door that day. Although it might have given her good reason to believe in Erik, the possible consequences of such a confrontation were too chilling to ponder. Gavin realized that he'd been a complete idiot for not considering these things earlier.

Marisol only came out of the bedroom once when their daughter started crying. With Rose in her arms, his wife went back into the room and closed the door. Gavin sat on the couch and buried his face in his hands, trying to figure out how he was going to get out of this one. He didn't have a copy of the photograph of Erik and Christine, but that might not be enough anyway.

After sitting on the couch for several hours, thinking over his situation, Gavin called Christine on his cell phone and told her everything. He kept his voice low, knowing the conversation might get him into even more trouble with his wife.

"God," Christine began in a strained voice. "Gavin, that's awful. I'm so sorry. Do you want me to talk to her? Maybe she'd believe me."

"I'm not sure if she'd believe anything you had to say. She'd probably accuse us of conspiring."

Christine sighed. "This is partly my fault for bringing you into this. Is there anything I can do?"

"Maybe," he murmured.

"What?"

"Marisol asked to see him. If she could see you with Erik…maybe a quick glimpse of him…hear his neat voice once…I think she'd believe it. It's pretty hard to deny his existence after you've seen his height and eyes and all that."

"Oh, Gavin. I don't know. I don't think he'll allow that."

"I didn't think so," he softly replied. "It's fine. I don't want to make this worse than it is."

Several moments of silence passed before she spoke again. "I'll talk to Erik. But I can't make any promises."

"No. Don't force him into it. I mean, that'd be a little dangerous. And I don't want Marisol to be…well…I want everything to stay sane."

"She wouldn't tell anyone about him, would she?" Her voice trembled slightly.

"All she knows is that he's disfigured. I'm going to try to keep it that way for a long time; I don't want her freaking out. But, that aside, Marisol's not the kind to go telling people everything."

"That's good." Someone was speaking in the background. "Erik is looking at me…and insulting you for keeping me up late. I'll give you a call later. Don't expect much."

"Thanks. I won't. "

After hanging up, Gavin reclined on the couch and stared at the ceiling. For some reason, he was reminded of the time he slept in the pews of the London church, waiting for someone to kill him. He was saved that time.

Would he be saved this time?

* * *

"No."

"But Erik! Think of all Gavin has done for us."

Her husband sat on the bed with his arms folded and his back straight, glaring. "And I kept him from getting shot several times. We are quite even."

"You don't even have to say anything," Christine replied, sitting beside him. "I'll try to talk to her."

"He should have been more cautious. I wish to torture him for leading her to our home. But you will not let me."

"He didn't mean to lead her here. He's tried to be careful."

"Pity. He failed."

She moaned in exasperation and grabbed onto Erik's arm. "Poor Gavin. He's been so good to us. Don't you care at all?"

"No. And neither should you. You are my wife; you should care about your loving husband." Before she could react, Erik grabbed her and held her tightly with both arms, pressing her against his chest and snuggling against her. "My wife. Not his."

She spoke into Erik's shirt. "I am _your _wife, and I love you. But Gavin wants his wife, too. You know, Erik? If Gavin loses his wife and baby, he'll probably come over here all the time."

Erik stiffened. "I will not let him inside my house."

"Please help me? Marisol needs to know that Gavin and I aren't…doing anything…."

Erik chortled. "That can be proven by the fact that Mr. Lewis' head is still attached to his body."

"Please? It'd be so sad if Gavin lost his family…."

He grunted. "I do not like women staring at me. Their little eyes always get wide, and then they moan and mutter about my ugliness, as though my existence insults them. And it is rather tiresome."

"Erik. If she says anything offensive, she won't be welcomed anywhere near us ever again. And then we'll come home and and forget about her."

"You are assuming that she would survive such an encounter."

"I know you wouldn't hurt her," Christine stated.

"How do you know what I would do? Only Erik knows what Erik will do!"

Christine sighed. His eyes were sane, though, which led her to believe that he was just being difficult.

"We will sleep now," he said, stroking her hair.

"Will you at least consider helping me? Please?" She pulled her head up and kissed him. "Please?"

He lay down on the bed with her still in his arms. "My wife does not stare at my ugliness. Mine."

She'd try again in the morning.


	11. Chapter 11

Hi, guys! Thank you all for your kind comments about the last chapter. My beta is still away but will hopefully be back for the next vignette. I hope you enjoy this one. We're probably going to start jumping forward in time soon; these first months were important for development, though.

**Read and Review!!**

Christine stared at _him _with big, sad eyes all throughout the next morning. The sound of the violin did not even block her voice out of his head. _Please, Erik? Please help me this one time?_

How dare she ask him to parade his carcass in front of some strange female? Why not display him in a cage and charge twenty-five cents for merely viewing him and fifty cents to throw an apple core at his head?

Somewhere in his mind, he knew that Christine wasn't that cruel. Still, he felt cornered. On the one hand, he desperately did not want some wench staring at him and telling her friends about him. But if Mr. Lewis lost his wife, _he_ would never hear the end of it from Christine. Mr. Lewis was already stealing her attentions away.

After they argued, Christine refused to speak to him for a few hours. According to Internet articles, that was called the "silent treatment." The dear girl was never very successful with it. At lunchtime, she came after him again. "Erik? All I want is for Gavin to keep his family."

"It is not my fault that Mr. Lewis cannot keep his own wife," he stated, brutally stabbing a piece of chicken with his fork.

"No, it's not," she agreed. "It's more my fault than yours. But…I think you're the only one who can fix this. Marisol wouldn't believe anything I had to say."

"So the sight of me will convince her that monsters do exist? And then she will be so horrified that she will forget her husband's lies. Delightful."

Christine frowned. "I don't care what she thinks about us. If she's still upset after she sees you, there's nothing else we can do. But I want to try to fix this. I feel so bad for Gavin."

"She will stare at me." He twitched at the thought.

"We'll ignore her." Christine took his hand. "Like I said, I don't care what she thinks of us."

"What if I cannot ignore her? What if I have the urge to…?" He tapered off.

Christine hesitated and looked down at her plate for a moment, gnawing on her bottom lip. She then stared him straight in the eye with so much seriousness that he wished to crawl under the kitchen table. "Do you really think you'd hurt her?" she asked. "If you do, then we won't go. I'm not going to take a chance on ruining your sanity. That's the most important thing right now." Her thumb stroked the back of his hand.

He was trapped. If he said that he was sane enough to handle the situation, one of his best excuses would be gone. If he stated that he was not sane, Christine would continue to see him as more of a child than a husband. She would continue to worry over his sanity until little lines formed on her young face and all the pretty color disappeared from her cheeks. _Damn._

His answer was honest. "If you are near, I will not hurt her."

The expression on Christine's face was worth the upcoming misery, he supposed. "I won't leave your side that entire night," she declared. "We won't even stay that long. A quick meeting should be fine. "

"If she has a heart attack at the sight of me, it does not count as murder."

"It doesn't," Christine agreed.

"And when we return home, I get to have you."

She laughed. "Erik, you can _have_ me no matter what. That's not something we should use to bribe or punish each other. It's…unconditional."

How could he deny her anything when she spoke such sweet words?

Well, he did try one more time to get out of it. "I do not wish to do this. I would rather cut my smallest fingers off." He had done that before; the fingers were not his own, though.

"I know." Her tone was hopeful; the crafty girl knew she was winning. "But if you do this for me once, I'll never make you again. We don't even have to go out anymore, if you don't want to."

"But I want to take you out. My wife should go out like all the other wives."

"Then you can decide where we'll go next."

He grinned as much as his twisted mouth allowed him to do so. She was so cheerful over her victory that he could not resist toying with her. "I get to decide where we go, eh? Would you prefer a morgue or a cockfight?"

She wrinkled her nose. "It has to be legal, and it can't involve dead people or animals."

"Then Erik will have to think about what he wishes to do."

"How about a movie?" she gently suggested.

"It is my decision, and I will decide later," he firmly stated. "And we shall have a splendid evening, my sweet wife."

During their loving banter, he almost forgot about his anxiety over the upcoming meeting.

Almost.

If anything happened during the encounter that destroyed _his_ precious new life, though, he would ensure that Mr. Lewis suffered for it.

* * *

Gavin kept his cell phone by his side all throughout a fairly sleepless night and into the following morning. Marisol remained in the bedroom with Rose, only emerging to use the bathroom and get a drink of water. When he knocked, she said, "Leave me alone."

"Honey, we really, really, really need to talk about this. You've got it all wrong."

"I don't want to talk to you right now."

Gavin trudged back into the living room and collapsed onto the couch. At least his wife hadn't called her mother yet; Marisol probably didn't want to hear, _I told you so!_ _I told you that boy couldn't settle down! _

His phone finally vibrated at a little after one in the afternoon. Gavin flew to his feet and answered it, feeling his heart jump. _Calm down, dude. _"Hello?"

"Hi there," replied Christine. "How's it going?"

"Not well," he replied, hoping for her sympathies.

"I'm sorry." She paused. "But maybe we can try to fix it soon. I…um…think I got Erik to agree to a quick meeting. Very quick. No more than five minutes."

Gavin grinned and fell back onto the couch in relief. "That'd be great!" he exclaimed. "You don't know how happy you've made me. If I wasn't in so much trouble with my wife and if your husband wouldn't kill me, I'd give you a big hug."

Christine softly laughed. "Yeah. You might not want to do that. But I hope it all works out."

They agreed that scheduling the meeting for tomorrow evening would give them both enough time to prepare. Christine said they couldn't meet at her home because it would be an invasion of Erik's territory. Gavin wholeheartedly agreed, and they decided to get together near a Greek restaurant about an hour after sunset. The building would be open so they wouldn't appear suspicious, but most people would be finished with dinner, which would mean fewer crowds.

"Maybe he could wear the black mask," Gavin suggested at one point. "It might be less confusing for Marisol than the realistic one."

Christine grunted. "I'm not going to make this less comfortable for Erik than it already is. I'll let him decide on the mask."

Gavin backed off. "All right. That's cool. Let Erik decide."

After the conversation, Gavin immediately ran to the bedroom door and knocked three times. "Honey? I really need to talk to you."

"Go away."

"But I spoke to Christine on the phone and arranged a meeting--with both her and her husband. You wanted to meet them, right? Well, here's your chance."

A short silence followed. "When?"

"Tomorrow night. But if that's not good for you, we'll pick another day."

The door to the bedroom slowly creaked opened. Her cheeks were tearstained, and her eyes had dark rings around them. Gavin felt a pain in his heart; his wife actually believed that he'd been unfaithful.

"This is all I have, Marisol," he said, holding his open palms out toward her. "Come meet them. If you don't believe me after that, then there's nothing else I can do. Please."

She stared at him, her lips pursed. "I'll meet them," she muttered. Rose started crying, and Marisol turned around and went to take care of her, leaving the door to the bedroom halfway open.

The rest of that day was cold and cordial. Marisol finally came out of the room, but she didn't talk to him. After awkwardly sitting around the house and feeling like a loser, Gavin went to Rose and told her his problems.

"Daddy really messed up," he explained, letting his daughter grab his fingers. "So now I have to take Mommy to see Aunt Chrissy and Uncle…uh…I don't think he'd want to be called Uncle Erik, do you?" Rose made a gurgling noise, and Gavin took it for agreement. "Yeah. Let's hope Mommy doesn't have a heart attack over Uncle Erik. And let's hope Uncle Erik doesn't bring his magical rope."

Gavin's stomach tightened with anxiety as the time approached. After spending another night on the couch with only the television for company, he approached Marisol in an attempt to avoid a disaster. "I really need to talk to you," he began, hoping she didn't tell him to go away.

"What?" she asked, staring at him with wary eyes.

"When you meet Erik, Christine's husband, you have to stay very calm and collected."

"No, Gavin," Marisol replied with more than a little sarcasm. "I'm going to run away screaming at the top of my lungs."

"I mean it." He was getting another headache. "You have to stay calm or you'll upset him."

She rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips. "Do you actually think I'm going to point at him or something? How shallow and immature do you think I am?"

"No. I don't think you're shallow and immature. But you need to understand that he is a little intimidating. He's tall and…he'll probably wear all black and…."

"It's going to be fine."

"Don't try to take his mask off." Christine had once mentioned that story; it was unpleasant.

"Why would you even think...?" Marisol shook her head and walked away.

That evening, they left Rose with an elderly and trustworthy babysitter. Marisol didn't want to leave their daughter at such a young age, but Gavin didn't think Erik needed a strange woman and a crying baby around him all in one night. Rose was much safer with old Mrs. McGooken.

Gavin gripped the steering wheel as they drove to their destination, feeling his stomach continue to turn. _Was he really taking his wife to meet a murderer?_ "It will be fine if we handle this carefully," he murmured, more to himself than to Marisol.

"You're really paranoid," his wife replied. "Is this guy dangerous or something?"

"He's tense and unfriendly." It wasn't a lie; Gavin simply hadn't answered the question.

"Well, that's okay. It's not like he's going to hurt us."

Gavin twitched. "He might say something rude. Ignore him. Don't get upset over it."

"Gavin, would you calm down?"

"No!" he exclaimed, facing her despite the fact that he was driving. "You're not taking this seriously enough."

"I'm just meeting a disfigured man and—you're about to hit that truck!"

Gavin swerved out of oncoming traffic and kept his eyes on the road. He took a deep breath as his heart pounded. "Okay. I'm sorry that I'm being a big jerk. I'll try to calm down." Once they arrived, he parked in a nearby vacant lot and turned off the car. After taking several seconds to gather himself together, Gavin looked at his wife. "Ready?" he softly asked.

She nodded twice.

They stepped out of their car and strolled down the damp streets, their breaths visible in the glow of the streetlights. Gavin slipped his gloved hand into hers, and, to his relief, she took it. As they neared the restaurant, he saw Christine and waved. She waved back. Marisol's eyes narrowed in disdain.

Erik materialized only after they walked closer, either stepping out of the shadows or from behind a corner. Or maybe he had mastered the art of teleportation. He wore the realistic mask, but there was just enough lighting to tell that it was a false face. The yellow eyes were clearly visible.

Marisol sharply drew in her breath and took one step backward, her eyes widening. Gavin put an arm around her waist to both hold her in place and reassure her. She leaned against his shoulder, reflexively searching for protection. "It's okay," Gavin whispered into her ear. She nodded once and swallowed.

Christine stood in front of Erik, her back nearly touching his stomach and chest. At first, Gavin thought Christine was trying to restrain Erik. On second glance, though, it seemed like she was guarding him.

Gavin spoke first, his voice a little hoarse. "Hey. Wow. So…okay…this is my wife, Marisol. And, Marisol, this is Erik and Christine Ackart."

Christine slowly offered a hand to Marisol. "Hi. It's nice to meet you."

His wife blinked and managed to tear her eyes away from Erik. Fortunately, Erik was staring down at Christine--and swaying as he continuously shifted weight from foot to foot. "It's nice to meet you both," Marisol managed to say, limply shaking Christine's hand. Marisol hesitated with her arm half-extended, obviously unsure about whether she was supposed to shake Erik's hand, too. Gavin gently took his wife's wrist and brought her arm down; Erik only let one person touch him.

"I wanted to say that I'm…very sorry about any misunderstandings," continued Christine. "It was a really confusing situation, and I needed the help of a _friend_. But…I didn't mean to take Gavin from his family."

Marisol continued to side-glance Erik. "It's…okay," she said, keeping her voice soft. She wouldn't dare give Christine a piece of her mind with Erik standing right there. "I'm happy that we're getting it all sorted out."

Christine nodded. "Gavin helped us a lot in England. He probably saved our lives."

"I'm glad he could help you," Marisol stiffly replied. "I wish he would have explained it to me."

"I understand. We all could have handled it a little better," Christine agreed.

"Yep," said Gavin. "I definitely could have done things differently."

"A lot of it was my fault, too," said Christine.

One of Erik's pale hands came to rest on his wife's right shoulder. Christine reached up and placed her hand over his. Marisol watched their interaction with wide eyes; Gavin scratched his head.

"So," Christine began again, struggling to make conversation. "Um…you guys will have to tell me the best places to go around here. It's…a big city. I feel lost sometimes."

"Yeah," replied Gavin. "There's a lot to do. Marisol knows the best places to shop."

"I could use some new clothes," said Marisol. "Gavin told you about our baby…?"

Christine smiled for the first time. "Yes! Gavin showed me pictures of Rose. She's beautiful."

Marisol managed a close-lipped smile. "Thank you. She's our joy."

A bunch of giggling teenagers suddenly walked by them, breaking the eerie peacefulness. Once they were gone, several awkward seconds of silence passed. Marisol stared at Erik again.

And then Erik spoke for the first time that night, causing all three of them to glance up. "I wish to go now. My wife is cold. You have spoken long enough." The yellow eyes narrowed into a slight glare, and Erik released Christine's shoulder and took her hand.

Marisol shivered as his strange voice echoed around them. Gavin inwardly chuckled. At least there was nothing dangerous about Erik's statement; it was simply blunt and rude.

Christine laughed and turned to follow her impatient husband. "Well, I guess it's time for us to head off. Nice to meet you."

"Good seeing you," Gavin replied.

"Nice to meet you," Marisol choked out. She remained silent as she walked back to their car, hugging her arms against her chest. As soon as they were inside and had the heater blowing over them, the questions started pouring out of her. "He's…what…how…where did he come from?"

"France." Gavin started the engine and backed out of the parking lot.

"But I mean…_where?_"

Gavin softly chuckled. "He's a human being. He got here like the rest of us."

"Have you seen his face?"

"No. Not really." The old photograph was the closest that Gavin had come to it.

"Then how do you know--"

"Christine told me."

"How'd they meet? Where on earth did she find him?"

Gavin cringed and quickly formed a half-truth. "Erik's former job. I don't know the details."

"What does he do for a--"

"Maybe we can talk about this tomorrow. I'm kind of tired, honey. I'm sorry." In other words, he was too exhausted to form any more half-truths.

Marisol stared out the window for several minutes. "He loves her," she murmured. "He watched her the entire time."

"Yeah," Gavin agreed. "It's a little funny sometimes how—oh, what's the word?—not obsessed…well, maybe that's right. How obsessed he is with her."

Marisol scoffed. "There is nothing funny about a husband's devotion to his wife."

Gavin groaned. "Are you still mad at me?"

"Yes. You've still been lying all this time." She frowned. "But…at least it's not what I thought it was. You could've told me from the beginning."

"I know. I'm sorry. But this will stay between us, right? Erik is sort of a secret."

She nodded. "I won't tell anyone about him. It'd be terrible if they were harassed." Marisol paused. "But no more secret meetings with Christine. Tell me when you want to visit them; they could probably use friends. I hate it when you sneak around behind my back, though!"

"I'll stop," Gavin promised. "I'll tell you what I'm doing from now on."

"Thank you." After a second, she smirked and said, "At least I know you'd _never _cheat on me with Christine. I bet Erik would get _really _angry at you. He'd probably beat you up."

"Heh. Yeah…. He wouldn't be too happy. Fortunately, I have no interest whatsoever in Christine." Gavin turned and kissed her on the cheek, managing not to drift into oncoming traffic this time. Marisol softly grunted, and he hoped that she was at least starting to forgive him.

He also hoped she didn't consider the Ackarts as candidates for luncheons and tennis doubles.

* * *

Christine jumped on _him_.

Not even a year ago, he would have reflexively thrown her off and likely injured her. But even as the adrenaline rose within him and prepared him to fight, he was able to process that she was his wife and not an enemy. He sat down on the edge of the bed with her still hugging him, tentatively wrapping an arm around her. Even after a quiet ride home, the events of the night were still eating at him.

"Everything went perfectly," she stated. "And you were fine, Erik. I'm so proud of you."

"I merely stood there."

"But you were fine. Even _I_ was about to tell her to stop staring. You ignored her, though."

He tensed. "She stared at you as well."

"So? I don't care. Everything went fine." Christine began to kiss his bare face and remove his jacket.

"How can you not care?"

She drew back with a sigh. "What?"

He momentarily closed his eyes. "She…people will always gawk at you and wonder what sort of girl you are to have married such a freakish creature. They will look down upon you and judge you. I do not know how to make it stop without…injuring them." It was the first time he had realized that his presence tarnished his wife's image; it pained him.

"I'll ignore them. I don't care what people think," she protested.

"But that is untrue. You always adorn yourself before we go out. Your hair, your clothing, your face. If you did not care, you would not put so much effort into your appearance."

Christine glanced down in thought, her brow creased. "Part of it is looking nice for you," she admitted, gazing back up at him. "I like it when you…want me." She blushed, and he could not resist pressing a kiss to her forehead. "But I do want to look nice when I go out, too. People respect me a little more when I dress up. But, as far as we go, I don't care what people think. You're more important than they are."

"Oh."

"Besides, you've worn a suit since the first day I met you." She finished removing his jacket and tossed it aside. "Why do you do that?"

He considered this. "After being forced to wear a dirty prison uniform for ten years, I wished to wear the opposite. And the suit was intimidating, especially when I was…_dealing_ with the upper class."

"So kind of for respect."

"I suppose that is so."

"It's the same for me." Christine began to kiss him again, and he became calm enough to return her affections. She was…extremely passionate that night, and he was left to assume that his fears were unfounded.

It was one thing if people stared at _him_; he could refrain from killing them for Christine's sake. It was quite another thing if they upset and embarrassed her. But perhaps his wife had already made these decisions and accepted the burden. Perhaps she would not break into pieces at the first cruel whispers and hostile stares. Perhaps…she was strong.

Over the next week, Christine purchased a small, plastic tree for their living room. She hung some lights and ornaments on the branches before asking him to put the gold star on top. He did so to make her smile, not really understanding the significance. Red and green candles appeared on their kitchen table, and a wreath decorated their door. Such objects were not completely new to him because his mother had sometimes observed Christmas. He'd always been sent to his room because "a demonic child had no business celebrating a holy day."

Despite his negative feelings toward the season, he did wish to get Christine a gift. For several days, he puzzled over the matter and made a mental list of objects that women were traditionally given in the country. As of now, the list contained chocolate, flowers, jewelry, and Tupperware (how dreary!). There were also toys in the shapes of animals, but he did not have the stomach to buy a stuffed zebra with a red bow on its head or other such nonsense. De Chagny had likely bought her that sort of thing. Ick.

While she was singing one evening, he decided that tickets to the opera would be the ideal gift. _Rusalka _was to be performed within the city next year. It was a tragic fairy tale that they might both enjoy, and she always did take pleasure from going out in the evenings. And she would hopefully understand the gift's significance concerning music as both a part of the past and her future.

As the tickets would not arrive swiftly enough by mail, he was forced to retrieve them. When Christine asked where he was going that evening, he said, "Someplace perfectly legal." He purchased them with a legitimate credit card and false identification. The older man behind the counter didn't seem to notice anything unusual…or he didn't care. Apathetic people were always appreciated.

All in all, the gift was successful. Christine grinned, hugged him, and asked if he would accompany her.

"Of course I will go," he replied. "I will certainly not allow another man to take you. I would kill him for trying to take _my _ticket." He became irate just thinking about that hypothetical, thieving man. She managed to calm him down.

He received a variety of small gifts from her: clothing, pens and paper for composing, CDs with operatic and classical music, and chocolate. As he sat there with it all piled in his lap, her face scrunched up. "I didn't really know what to get you," she said. "I wanted a piano, but it couldn't fit in here. So I just got you whatever I could think of. I'm sorry."

"Do not be ridiculous. It is fine." The truth was that nothing she purchased for him could really compare with the ring on his finger. She could have bought him a pipe organ, and he would not have been impressed.

"But--"

"Christine. You have given me far more than enough. And if I even have to explain that to you….Do not make me explain it to you."

She didn't force him to explain. And except for when he mistakenly knocked a bowl of brown gravy to the floor during dinner—he hoped most of his curses were in French so that her ears were not offended—it was a peaceful day.

The very last holiday of the year was also bearable; it was simplistic and only required a bottle of champagne. The drink made his face tingle, especially near his non-existent nose.

Christine reclined on the couch, waiting for midnight. "Last New Year's Eve, I was at a really horrible party with one of my friends. And missing you."

"I was at a costume party…borrowing Carlotta Glouer." _And losing my sanity. _

"It's a much better New Year's," she stated. The late hour and the alcohol had put a smile on her face.

"Indeed."

"Do you have a resolution?" she asked with a yawn.

"I do not."

"Me neither. I couldn't think of one."

She fell asleep on the couch before midnight. He sat there in the dim light with the television at a low volume. The year was ending, and he was alive and married. _Alive and married._ For a split second, it seemed so unbelievable that he nearly panicked. He stared at the coffee table, the lamp, the plastic tree…trying to make sure that they were not the hallucinations of an insane prison inmate. He even grabbed onto her hair for reassurance. The fear faded, and the living room came into focus again. Tilting his head against the back of the couch, he took several deep breaths.

It would take time for him to trust his new sanity.

With some alarm, he looked down and saw that he'd wound his hand tightly up in her hair. He quickly worked to untangle his fingers and not waken her, lest she suddenly jerk her head and end up with a bald spot. Christine did awaken, but, thankfully, she didn't move. "What are you doing?" she asked.

"I…do not know. Your hair is very soft, and I became a bit carried away." He looked down at her expression and chuckled. "Your husband is simply a crazy, old man."

"You're not that old," she teased, wincing as she tried to help him unwind his fingers. "And sane men—ouch!--can be kind of dull."

"I am glad you think so; it will save me from having to…deal with them once you begin school."

They managed to remove his hand from her hair before midnight. At the stroke of twelve, Christine grabbed him and taught him one more holiday ritual; he decided that he liked that one.

And the first year of his life came to an end.


	12. Chapter 12

I saw _Dark Knight_! Ledger's Joker was really amazing. My beta—who is back!—can tell you we've had nice in-depth discussions about him. On a serious note, it's tragic that we lost a young actor with so much talent.

I'll be honest with you and say that this vignette is entirely about Raoul. I was going to do E/C afterward, but it got too long. The following vignette should be up in several days and will be entirely E/C—yummy E/C with a touch of angst and jealousy.

Thanks to all who read and reviewed the last vignette. Thanks to _MadLizzy _for editing.

**Read and Review!!**

"I don't want to wear a mask," he muttered.

She laughed and clicked her tongue. "Now you're being difficult. We've been in here for forty minutes."

"But it's uncomfortable," Raoul complained. "And I can't see out the eye holes."

"Fine. How about an eye patch?" Melanie held one up. "You could be a pirate."

Raoul plucked the plastic mask off his face and stared down at it; Frankenstein's green monster stared back. "Maybe a pirate would be better."

He'd never been to a costume party with Christine. They'd spent New Year's quietly, and….

_Damn it._ Why did that have to be one of his first thoughts on every date with Melanie? _I didn't do this with Christine. I did do this with Christine. I liked Christine more when we did this together. Melanie was better at this than Christine. _

It wasn't that he was still miserable over Christine twenty-fours of the day. He just had a terrible habit of comparing Melanie to her. At least he'd never done it out loud; that would get him a slap across the face.

Melanie was rushing down the aisles of the costume store, gathering a pirate ensemble together. She was determined to get him to this party because "her friends really wanted to get to know him." Raoul watched her as she sorted through the metal hooks that slid over the hand and wrist. Her hair was pleasant--springy brunette curls that never lost their shape. It was different from Christine's hair, which never really had a set form. Sometimes it was wavier, and other times it was--

_Argh! _

"Ready!" she declared, holding the items up for him to see.

"Maybe I should go as a ninja." He pointed to the black outfit; it looked loose and comfortable.

She rolled her eyes. "I've already got the pirate together."

"Fine. I'll be a pirate. But only the Captain."

She laughed and grabbed a black Captain's hat to plant on his head, becoming serious once they reached the register.

Melanie was twenty-five, and she generally acted her age, walking a tightrope between playful teenage girl and mature, working woman. At first, Raoul had been slightly dismayed that she wasn't a few more years younger than him. Now that his idealism had been destroyed, though, it was probably better for him to stay away from younger women. Raoul wasn't about to wreck some innocent girl's dreams of "happily ever after."

As fate would have it, Melanie had also been engaged years ago, right after graduating high school. She simply called it "a stupid thing that I did when I was younger."

Raoul called his problems "the giant mess that ruined everything." He had every right to be dramatic about it, too. Neither of them gave many details about their past situations.

Over their first couple of dates, he feared that Melanie was more interested in him because of his past and celebrity status. She'd asked questions that seemed innocent but had a lot of layers. _How was London? What have you been up to for the past year? So…what did _Falcon_ make? _He gave vague answers and ignored her little discontented frown. Like Christine, though, Melanie didn't seem to care about his money. For their second date, she even suggested a cheap coffee house and offered to pay for herself. Of course, Raoul didn't let her.

It started off slow and cautious. They had a date once a week, somewhere simple like a restaurant or the movies…or an ice skating rink where he'd embarrassed himself more than a few times. Raoul guessed it was a good sign when he started looking forward to that date-- when it became the brightest spot on his calendar. Then again, most of his calendar was filled with meetings amid scowling, growling lawyers. A lobotomy would have been a bright spot.

But he really did enjoy going out with her.

Melanie could carry a conversation about the usual stuff: movies, television shows, and bestsellers. She was educated, and he never felt the need to dumb down the conversation. Once she stopped with the prying questions--why were women so curious?--they were fairly relaxed together.

It had gotten serious one night in late November when, after dinner at a steakhouse, she'd said, "How about an ice cream sundae?"

"Eh." He stretched his arms over his head. "I'm a little full."

"Let's split one, then. What do you want on it?"

"You can decide," he said. "But no pineapple."

"Fine." She ordered, and the gigantic dessert arrived with at least six scoops of ice cream and ten different toppings. Melanie had started laughing at it. "I think I got carried away. That was stupid."

"Now you have to eat it," he stated.

A half-panicked expression formed on her face. "You have to help."

"All right." Raoul filled a small spoon with chocolate ice cream and sprinkles, filled his mouth, and put the utensil down. "There."

"That's not fair!" Her expression was endearing.

Five minutes later, they left most of the sundae on the table, paid the bill, and went to his house. It was a good night. A _very_ good night. And, the next morning, Raoul woke up terrified. For the first time in many months, it had been more than physical.

He'd freaked out and nearly broken up with her the very next week. The speech was all planned in his head. _It's not you, Melanie. It's me. Completely me. I'm screwed up right now. All this crap happened recently. I'm sorry. Just forget about me. I'm so sorry. _

All right. So it wasn't a great speech.

During their date, right before he was about to say the damning words, Melanie hesitated and then said, "Hey. I don't know if you'd be into this; some people aren't. But I like going up to the mountains in the spring. I do a little rafting and hiking. It's been awhile since I went with my friends."

"You um…you like the outdoors?" he asked.

"Yeah. I mean, I wouldn't want to live up there. It's too isolated. But I like going there occasionally for fun. Do you?"

"Yeah. I do." He suddenly forgot what he was supposed to say.

"Great." She wiped her mouth. "Was there something you wanted to tell me?"

"Uh…no."

He didn't break up with her. But it was also on that day that he'd started comparing Melanie to Christine.

Christine had never liked the outdoors that much. She'd tolerated it for his sake (just like he'd tolerated it when she played opera music in the house), but the only times Christine became excited in the wilderness was when they'd glimpsed baby wild animals. One time, he'd even had to stop her from chasing after a baby raccoon. Otherwise, she wanted to stay in the lodge, sit by the fireplace, and drink hot chocolate.

When Melanie went to see her parents in Ohio for Thanksgiving, he was given a little time to clear his head about the whole thing. She invited him to go with her, but he declined the invitation, not ready to meet _anyone's_ parents yet. Instead Raoul spent the holiday with Aunt Ellen, where he had the three necessary _F's_: family, food, and football. By the end of the vacation, he was glad that he hadn't broken up with her.

Melanie stayed in town for Christmas. Her grandmother's store was busy during that time of year, and she wanted to help with the long lines of neurotic customers. She spent a quiet Christmas Eve with him and Christmas Day with her grandma. He gave her a pair of dangling emerald earrings (her birthstone) and a stuffed koala (her favorite animal). Girls always liked stuffed animals. Melanie bought him outdoor equipment and told him now he _had_ to go hiking with her. It was nice.

It was around New Year's when things got a little tense. Revelations were always inevitable, he supposed.

They were preparing to go to the costume party together on New Year's Eve. At first, Melanie was planning to be a Gypsy. After gathering together his pirate costume, though, she decided to go as a blue and gold parrot, complete with a sequined mask that had a bright orange beak and yellow eyelashes. When she donned it that evening, right before the party, he unintentionally frowned.

"What's wrong?" she asked, obviously a little hurt. "You don't like it?"

"No. It's great!"

"Come on," she pled. "Tell me what's wrong. I'm going to feel weird going out in it now." She looked down at herself, probably trying to find the problem.

Raoul sighed. "I don't like masks. It's me—not you. You look great."

"Why don't you like masks?"

"I don't know. It's hard enough trying to figure people out when you can see their faces. They're…I don't know. It's hard to explain. Ignore me."

"The mask is only for fun," she said. "We're not going to rob a bank."

"Wouldn't be the strangest thing I've done this year…." he mumbled.

"What?"

"Nothing. Sorry. I'm being dumb. Let's go. Maybe I should have worn a mask, too, so your friends don't stare at me."

Melanie slipped off her mask and frowned. "Are you ever going to tell me anything?" she asked. "My friends stare at you because they don't know anything about you outside of what's on the news. Some of them think you're sweet. Some think you're...hot." She blushed. "A few think you're a snobby millionaire because you never say much to them. And one guy heard that you…killed someone."

"It was in self-defense," he blurted out. "Of someone else. I mean, I was defending an innocent person from a hit man. I had no choice."

Melanie stared at him, momentarily startled, before shaking her head. "Oh…. Well, I'd ask you more about it, but I don't even know where to begin."

"What?"

"I don't really know much about you. I'm not trying to be nosey. But you're this…semi-celebrity that suddenly asked me out. And even though I'd heard some pretty crazy stuff, I liked you. I've really liked getting to know you. But I still don't understand you."

"Yeah. Well. You won't tell me anything either. What happened to your fiancé?" It was a stupid trick to get the attention off himself, but it was all he had at the moment.

She rolled her eyes. "It's silly."

"I still want to know."

"Fine. I'll tell you. I didn't know you were that curious." Melanie sat down in an armchair, stood up as her feathery tail got in the way, straightened it out, and sat down again. "I was with the same guy for two years of high school. We were from the same neighborhood, and our parents knew each other. He played basketball; I was on the pom squad. Both of us were tired of school, and I guess marriage seemed more glamorous than college. Anyway, I got a job at the bank, and he told me he'd become assistant manager of this mechanic shop. It seemed fine. But, about three weeks before the wedding, I get home early one day…and…." Her eyes narrowed.

"Cheating on you?"

"No. He was sitting on the back porch of our apartment with one of his guy-friends--smoking pot. He claimed it was the first time he'd done it, but he didn't even have a job! He'd been fired a month before and hadn't told me. I got fed up, left him, and moved here to get a nursing degree. My grandmother's store has been kind of fun, so I haven't really used the degree yet. It's there if I need it, though."

"Yeah," Raoul agreed. "At least you figured it out early and got away from the guy."

"Yeah. I think he ended up marrying another girl on the pom squad." Melanie gave him a lopsided smile. "But see? I told you it was silly. And now it's your turn."

Raoul rubbed the bridge of his nose. "That's not fair. Mine's a lot more complicated." She folded her arms against her chest and sat back, waiting. "Fine. I'll answer one question tonight."

"One question? I don't even know what to ask." She bit down on her bottom lip and hesitated. "Um. Were you really—now I feel bad for asking--held hostage for like a month?"

"Yes."

"By your father's company?"

"I already answered one question."

She sighed. "Fine." They sat there in a tense silence until Melanie glanced at the clock. "I guess we'd better get going, huh?"

Raoul didn't answer, feeling that familiar bitter taste form in his mouth. The flavor was a mixture of disgust, hatred, shame and defeat. It had been dormant for some time but had never completely disappeared. And, for some reason, he felt like spitting it out that night. "You want to know what was so terrible about it?" he asked.

"What?"

"You want to know what was so terrible about being a hostage?"

She leaned in. "What?"

"I couldn't protect _her_. They wanted me, and they got her, too. But I was locked in this rat-infested room and couldn't do a damned thing for her. If they had decided to kill her, that would have been it. And at the end, she saved me. Did that make it into the news? She saved _my_ life."

The curiosity in her gaze turned to sympathy. "I'm sorry," she said after a moment, folding her hands in her lap. "But I'm sure you did all you could in that type of situation. There wasn't much you could've done. I can't even imagine…. But you both survived. That's what matters."

"I survived," he agreed. "I've survived some of the most screwed up, twisted individuals in the world. That's my greatest accomplishment. Surviving psychopaths."

"But that's not true. On the news, they're saying that you've been doing a great job getting the money to the victims…that you've never tried to deny what's happened. You're also helping a lot of people." He didn't respond. She came to sit beside him on the sofa and took his hand, entwining their fingers together.

He looked at her, feeling a little mad at himself for revealing so much. "Ready to go?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. It's kind of late. Maybe we should skip it. Unless you want to go."

"Only if you do."

Melanie softly laughed. "So I guess we won't go."

"You want to do something here?" he asked. He wondered if he'd given her too much information…if it was all a bit more than she wanted to handle.

"Yeah!" she earnestly replied. "We'll have our own little party. With costumes and everything."

As he felt her lips on his neck, Raoul suddenly realized that he'd gained a strange asset from the last few years. He now had a history tinged with ambiguity and darkness, with one of the biggest and nastiest corporate scandals to rock the world. He was now considered a little mysterious.

It had taken him an initiation through hell to claim the coveted title of: _a little mysterious._

What would someone have to go through to be _extremely mysterious_?

If Raoul _had_ ever envied Erik over the past year, he certainly didn't now.


	13. Chapter 13

Thank you all for the lovely reviews on my Raoul chapter. I know he's not everyone's favorite character—including mine!—but I did want to spend a little time on him in these vignettes.

This vignette will be all about Gavin and Marisol. Just kidding! I hope you enjoy the E/C. Thanks to MadLizzy for editing.

**Read and Review!!**

Her first semester back to college started off on a bad note. Well, not bad…just….

"Group number four will be Christine, Ivan, David E., and Matt. Group five will be…."

Christine stared at the professor teaching the Sociology class, her mouth dropping open in dismay. Three boys in her group? Weren't they old enough to pick their own groups? Before she could complain, one guy spoke from the side of her. "Hey. You're Christine?" She turned her head. He actually looked a little like Raoul, except that his hair was longer, and he was skinnier.

"Hi. Yes. That's me."

"Hey. I'm David. Or Dave." Matt and Ivan soon joined them. They all shook hands and introduced themselves before settling down in a circle to prepare for the first group assignment. And what was she going to do? _I'm sorry, Professor. My husband says I'm not allowed to be in a group with three boys. _Maybe it wasn't a big deal.

They were nice boys. Dave seemed to be the smartest and most studious--the one to go to for homework help. Ivan was friendly but relaxed, his legs stretched out in front of him and his hands behind his head. Matt was sort of a flirt, but he appeared more interested in the Japanese girl sitting behind him. The only hard part came when, after class, Dave said, "We have four tests and two group projects. You guys want to study or work in the evenings sometimes?"

"How about the mornings or afternoons?" Christine suggested.

"Evenings are better for me," said Ivan. "I work."

"Same here," said Matt.

"Evenings, then," she murmured.

"If you can't always come, it's cool," said Dave with a nod at her. "This is casual."

"Yeah. We'll even go to the bar afterward," said Matt.

"Dude. Have you seen the bars around here?" asked Ivan. "They suck."

"_Charlie's_ doesn't suck," Matt protested. "They have one-dollar Wednesday."

Christine gathered up her belongings, told them goodbye, and headed off to find her next class. She'd forgotten what it was like to be around guys that age. At one time, they'd seemed a little intimidating with their smug, playful grins. Now, they seemed harmless. If only she could convince Erik of that.

When she got home early in the afternoon, Erik appeared delighted. Even if her time at home would be spent studying, she would be spending fewer hours physically away from him. Naturally, Erik's first question was, "Did anyone bother you?"

"No," she replied with a soft laugh. "It went well. I even managed not to get lost."

He wrapped an arm tightly around her shoulders and tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as though he could almost smell the young men who had been near her. Christine stood on her tiptoes and kissed him soundly as though to say, _Yes. There were boys around. So what? _

Some of the tension was eased when they went to the opera that weekend. It was freezing outside, but the night air was fresh, and the moon was full. She dressed up in a lavender evening gown and decorated herself with jewelry and makeup; Erik wore his best suit. Some people sat near them during the performance, but Erik managed to stay calm, his grip only tightening around her hand. He even allowed her to remove his hat, although he grumbled about it for several minutes.

The story of _Rusalka _was a romantic but heartbreaking fairy tale. Christine wondered why so many operas had to be that way; maybe she could convince Erik to write a happy opera. He'd probably laugh at her if she asked.

"Did you enjoy it?" inquired Erik as they returned to the car.

"Yes. It was beautiful, especially the singing. I'd love to learn "Song to the Moon." But…I like the ending to the cartoon version better."

He stared down at her. "The _what_?"

"So you know Shakespeare but not Disney?" she teased.

"He is the one who created that mouse, no?" Erik glared slightly. "I despised that mouse's voice."

She rested her head on his shoulder. "Don't worry. I won't make you watch _The Little Mermaid."_

It was one of the happiest nights of the semester. After she returned to school the following week, each day was like another coil in a tightly wound spring. It was difficult to say what caused the tension. Christine became stressed with some classes and was occasionally irritable over her grades. Still, she tried to complain to her classmates instead of to Erik; she didn't want him becoming angry with her professors. At home, she spent a lot of time reading textbooks, but Erik didn't seem to mind as long as she was with him. And their nights were always spent in each other's arms.

Maybe individual incidents built the tension. Or maybe the problems were in Erik's mind rather than in their relationship. An occasional crisis might have been inevitable.

It started when she and Matt began a long e-mail conversation in February. Christine had refused to give out her phone number and told her group members to contact her over the computer, which seemed safer for a variety of reasons. Matt e-mailed her with homework questions, explaining that the other guys weren't home and that he was completely lost on the assignment.

Wanting to be of help, she grabbed her notebook and wrote: _Yeah. Number two and six were confusing. I made up a bunch of stuff for the second one_. _See what you think._ She included her answer.

He almost instantly replied: _Yeah. Those questions made no sense. But your answer looked okay. _He went on to make some other suggestions and asked for her opinion. Matt was smarter than he originally seemed to be.

She wrote: _Looks good. After all this work, watch the professor just check for completion. Like last time. Lol._

He said: _Tell me about it. That class drives me up a wall. _

The conversation finished a few minutes later after they'd discussed the two questions and managed to come up with a few half-baked answers. With a satisfied sigh, Christine started to turn around and put her notebook away. And then she blinked in surprise because Erik was standing right behind her. He still had that ability to be completely silent.

"That was a boy." It was half a statement and half an accusation.

"Yes," she agreed. "It was a guy from my group. He needed a little help and couldn't reach anyone else."

"I will give him help."

She tensed and stood up, taking both of his hands with her own. He stared down at her, waiting. "Erik. Don't be like this. You knew I was going to have to work with them when you suggested I go back to school. All we're doing is homework."

"I should have insisted on an all-female institution." Erik glanced to the side as though seriously considering this possibility.

"Well, it's too late for that now," she quickly declared. "But you know you don't have anything to worry about. Tell me that you know that." He grunted. She stared right into those yellow eyes. "Erik, tell me that you trust me."

"You are faithful to me," he finally relented, his shoulders slouching.

"I am." She kissed him. "I love you."

He allowed her to pull him to bed, but she had a feeling that the matter still wasn't quite settled.

Over the rest of the semester, she avoided the evening study sessions, knowing that Erik would want to go with her at the more dangerous late hour. And he would likely watch from a hidden corner as she casually laughed with boys over stupid homework answers or one of the rude teaching assistants. That environment would not be good for Erik. And those three boys deserved to survive college.

Still, Erik seemed to sense her interaction with them, and he desired to counteract any influence they had over her. One evening, she was reclining on the couch doing her homework, and Erik was staring over her shoulder. Usually, she liked having him near her; he would stroke her back while she worked. Lately, though, he had been continuously correcting her answers, everything from punctuation to word choice.

"Erik," she gently began after the tenth interruption that night. "It's okay if everything isn't perfect. I just need to get it done."

"Do you wish to get a good mark on your assignment?" he harshly asked. "Or do you wish to be contrary for the mere sake of it?"

"Contrary for the sake of it," she replied, half-joking. "It's not worth that many points. I want to get it finished."

He suddenly snatched the notebook from her, along with her pen, and started writing something into the blank space.

"Erik!" she exclaimed, whirling around and reaching a hand outwards. "Give that back!"

"Erik will give you the correct answer," he calmly explained.

"But…" Knowing that it was useless to fight him for it, she sighed and waited. When he handed the notebook back to her, Christine looked down and frowned. "I can't read your handwriting."

"It is perfectly legible," he stated.

"Well, I can't read it."

"You are not even trying."

She held the notebook three inches from her face and squinted. "It's a bunch of squiggly lines. I can't read it."

"You sound like my _mother_."

Christine sharply glanced up, first surprised and then rather offended. Erik was frozen, his yellow eyes widening with uncharacteristic horror. "Forgive me," he nearly stuttered. "You are nothing like that. Nothing like _her_. It is…she simply used to hate my handwriting. But you are not like her."

"I…oh," she murmured, turning her back to him as tears stung her eyes. She needed a moment to compose herself. After all, her beloved had compared her to the woman who wouldn't let her son celebrate Christmas…to the mother who had made her only child fear sunlight.

"You are so very good to me," he said. "Not like her at all." Erik grabbed her hand and caused her to turn back around; he was nearly shaking. "You forgive your husband, don't you?"

"I do," she replied. Her heart was still stinging, but she didn't want to punish him more than he was already punishing himself. She swallowed the thickness in her throat. "It's all right."

"Erik should be skinned alive for saying such a thing to his precious wife."

"No. It's okay."

Erik wouldn't let her out of his sight for the rest of the evening, as though he were afraid his words might cause her to leave. She'd honestly gotten over it after a few hours. And maybe she had been a little cranky over school lately, which would remind Erik of his short-tempered mother. Still, Christine didn't think she'd ever been _that _bad.

That night, as she rested with her head on his shoulder, she asked, "Are you okay? Do you want to talk about anything?"

"I…no," he murmured.

"Are you sure? Are you mad at me for something?"

"No. I am not mad at my wife. I only say idiotic things to her. My wife makes me happy."

"You make me happy, too," she replied, and that seemed to bring a shine to his pained eyes. Still, she had a feeling that the heart of the problem hadn't been revealed.

The final incident came one week later, toward the end of March and right before Spring Break. She wanted to get with a study group before a big exam in an elective Biology class; science had always been her weakest subject. To her relief, the group agreed to meet in the afternoon, which meant she didn't have to convince Erik that nothing was going to jump out of the dark and grab her. She told her husband where she was going and promised to be back within a few hours. He didn't say anything, and, because she was already running late, Christine hastily decided that all was fine.

If she remembered right, the study session was productive. When she got back home, though, everything she'd learned nearly evaporated from her mind. The apartment was eerily quiet. Erik was sitting straight up on the couch, his hands resting on his knees and his head tilted downward as he stared at the floor. She started to greet him. But then she noticed a pile of white…_stuff _on the carpet, right beside the wall. Christine walked over and stared down, her heart jumping as she realized that the mess was the remains of several broken plates.

She took a shaky breath. They weren't antiques or particularly special dishes; it was the act itself that disturbed her. Erik remained silent while she stared between him and the plates.

Her first question was, "Are you hurt?"

"No."

"Good." She swallowed. "Is anyone else hurt?"

"No."

She didn't fear the answer to the third question nearly as much. "Is anything else broken?"

"No."

She took a deep breath of relief and waited for her heart to stop hammering. "Good." Christine walked to the couch and took a cautious seat beside him. "Erik?" She attempted to keep her tone calm. "What happened? Did you break them?"

He grunted and refused to look at her.

"Did you get mad at something or someone? I need to know what's wrong." A little desperation seeped into her voice.

"Nothing."

Realizing that she still had the heavy backpack on her shoulders, Christine shrugged it off and set it to the side. She then rested a hand on his leg. "I need to know," she said. "So we can fix it."

He said nothing for another minute. And then he muttered, "Erik thinks about them looking at you…smiling at you…helping you. Erik _hates _them. Erik tries not to, but he hates them so much, Christine. He wants them to die, but Erik knows he cannot kill them."

"You're Erik," she said, wanting to establish that fact before they went any further. "You hate them."

"I do not wish to be Erik right now. Erik broke plates."

"Are you sorry that you broke them?" she asked.

"Now you will have to buy more."

She rubbed his leg. "That's not a big deal. But Erik! I wish that you could understand that I don't feel anything for these people outside of…maybe very casual friendship at the most. How can I convince you of that? Have I done something to make you think otherwise?"

"No." His fingers curled around his knees. "But you will grow and bloom and shine, as I wish you to do. From the first time I heard you sing, I wanted you to have the world. And _they _will do the same. They will receive their degrees and their jobs. I will stay the same, like a weed. Nevertheless, I am _your _ugly weed, and they cannot have you. _I hate them_."

"You're not a weed! How can you say that you've stayed the same?"

"I can refrain from killing and stealing for you," he half-agreed. "There are many things I can _not_ do for you. But I also _do _nothing for you."

They'd been through this before. And she supposed it wouldn't get better until _something _changed. It was time to make him take that step.

"Write some music," she commanded, letting her head rest on his shoulder. "Write me something that I can show to someone else. But do it for yourself. I've never been ashamed of you; you're smarter than everyone in my classes, including the professors. But you…don't…seem to feel very good about yourself." She looked up. "Write me music to share."

"It is pointless."

"It is not. I want you to--"

"I have done so," Erik interrupted. Her eyes widened in surprise. "I finished it over a month ago. But it seemed useless. Silly notes scribbled on a page and going nowhere."

"Can I see it?"

He hesitated and then stood without a word. Within a few seconds, he was back, holding the six-paged composition. She took it and looked down at the red notes. The writing was a little messy but still readable, and Christine thought the slower piece would be beautiful. "Will you play it?" she asked.

"Perhaps another time. But I will kill anyone else if I see them touch _my_ music. So you had best take it and do as you like with it. Do not tell me if it is enjoyed or despised; I do not care. It is yours now."

She held the music with both hands, feeling her eyes tear up with a mixture of joy and sadness and stress. Only his next statement made her softly laugh instead of cry.

"I threw plates at the wall," he stated with disgust. "I am an idiot."

She hesitated as a darker possibility crossed her mind. "Do you remember breaking them?"

"Oh, yes! I spun them clockwise as hard as I could into the wall. And the sound was pleasant-- like a musical explosion! But...it was not good to break my wife's plates."

She felt relieved that he remembered, preferring anger to insanity. "I've thrown things across the room before."

He turned to stare at her. "When?"

"Mm. Years ago. Stuffed animals…." She laughed. "When I was eleven, I threw my old radio across the room because my dad said we couldn't afford a new one with a CD player. It left a giant mark on my wall."

"As a child, then," he stated with self-disgust.

"Yes. But it doesn't matter," she replied. "Maybe next time you could…stomp your feet instead…or…yeah…." He only stared at her with his head tilted. She patted his leg, stood, and moved to clean up the mess.

"I will do it," he said, gently touching her arm. "Let me do it."

"We'll both do it. Let me find a broom."

As they worked, Christine realized that she couldn't expect him to simply forget his jealousy. Even if he didn't violently act on the feelings, he still had them. So now what?

If he could make money off his music, it might help him feel better. Although Erik told her not to tell him if his compositions were successful, she'd find some way to let him know. Erik deserved to have that feeling of accomplishment. But what else?

Her weeklong break gave them some quiet time together. Erik continued to be regretful; he even got her flowers, and she was fairly sure they weren't from someone else's yard. One night, as she sat on the bed and stretched, Christine felt a pair of cold hands nearly encircle her bare neck. She blinked. "Erik?"

"You will have to tell me if I do this right," he stated, his soft voice right beside her ear. "Tell me if I hurt you." His hands separated slightly, and he began to massage her neck and shoulders. "You do it for your husband often, and now I must do it for my wife."

After a few directions from her, he was doing quite well. In fact, Christine fell asleep during the massage, and, when she awoke, she found herself tucked into bed. Life was peaceful when they were alone. It was dealing with the rest of the world that caused them problems.

After school started up again, Christine decided to try calling Erik between classes, especially when she would be gone for awhile. Toward the beginning of the semester, she'd bought caller ID. Her hours were going to be very irregular, and Christine knew she might need to occasionally phone Erik to tell him that she would be a little late. She didn't want to call twice every time she needed to talk to him. Plus, caller ID helped her avoid all the telemarketers that Erik wanted to kill.

She hadn't needed to phone him too many times that semester. So the first time that Christine called Erik just to check up on him, he sounded a little bewildered.

"Why did you call?" he asked.

She laughed. "Just to say 'hello.'"

"Is someone bothering you?" He sounded ready to attack them.

"No! I'm only calling to talk to you."

"If someone is bothering you, say the word 'music.'"

"Erik! No one is bothering me."

"Oh."

She called him every day over the next few weeks. Erik never sounded too enthusiastic over her calls, and so, one day, Christine decided not to phone him. The second she got home, though, he asked, "Why did you not call me?"

"Do you want me to call you?" she asked with a puzzled frown.

"…Yes."

"Then I will." Sometimes he confused her. But, even if her calls didn't thrill Erik, maybe they kept his anger level lower. At least no more of her dishes suffered his wrath.

She also managed to find several companies over the Internet that might look at Erik's music. He never asked about the compositions, which was good because Christine was having a difficult time figuring out how to get them published. She finally asked a professor who said it would be best to find a trustworthy publisher through the Music Publishers' Association. The professor also told her to copyright the music so that no one would take advantage of her.

Finally—and maybe this was just as much for her as for Erik—she wanted him to get used to something else living in the house. The apartment allowed fish, one cat, or one dog. Someday Christine hoped to buy a cat, but Erik would likely get jealous, especially if it crawled into their bed.

Still, she hoped to get Erik used to the idea of having company; maybe it would even help him when she wasn't home. And what better way to start than two shiny, new goldfish? She bought them at a pet store and named them Romeo and Juliet. After driving home, she placed the bloated plastic bag with the fish into her purse and sneaked them inside.

While Erik was in the shower, she ran out to the car to grab the tank and other equipment. Christine released the fish from the bag and into the water-filled tank, complete with a little castle and plastic scuba diver. It was precious! After feeding the fish and placing the small tank on a table beside the couch, she tiptoed out of the living room and went into their bedroom. She innocently sat on the bed.

Erik emerged fully clothed from the bathroom and nodded at her. "I will be to bed in a moment," he stated, heading into the living area.

She bit her lip and waited.

"_Christine!"_

She cringed. "That's Romeo and Juliet!"

"Ah. Those will certainly be fitting names in a moment," was the sarcastic reply.

She dashed out of bed to make sure the fish survived the next twenty-four hours. It took hugs and kisses and reassurances. Of course, she promised to take full responsibility for feeding and cleaning the tank. Her winning argument came when she said, "They're a couple just like us. They won't interfere because they love each other. They don't care about us." Actually, she didn't know the gender of the fish, but…some details weren't that important.

But this was the point of a _practice _pet, right? Erik would soon understand that the fish were a happy addition to the household…she hoped.

She was given reason for optimism when, as she prepared for school one week later, Christine asked, "Can I get you anything while I'm out?"

"No. We are fine," Erik replied.

"We?" _Had he gone from speaking in third person to first-person-plural?_

He side-glanced the two fish. "I am fine."

She managed not to smile until she was out the door.


	14. Chapter 14

The reviews on the last chapter were really amazing--so amazing that _MadLizzy_ devoted her review to the reviewers. It's really wonderful to see everyone so involved with the characters.

This vignette has several mature references but nothing graphic. It was a topic that needed to be addressed and is more about healing than sensuality.

Thanks again to everyone who is reading. Thanks to _MadLizzy_ for editing.

**Read and Review!!**

The last month of her first semester was the greatest struggle for _him_. And, he supposed, for her.

He truly wanted her to be happy. Even in his strongest moments of self-pity and jealousy, the sight of her tears made him ill. But he also feared Christine would climb so high that she would no longer have any use for him. If she ever did become a famous singer, he could already picture the disgustingly handsome admirers that would flock around her, shoving putrid flowers in her face.

_He_ also knew she was tired from schoolwork and that his constant paranoia worsened her stress. Her eyes were strained, and her shoulders always drooped with the weight of her backpack. Her tangled hair fell over her cheeks as she stared at the book with her chin propped up in one hand. Every so often, a small sigh or groan would escape her lips.

Still, she managed to care for him. Every day, before leaving, Christine asked, "Are you okay here? Do you need anything?"

It was not merely a routine question. From the way she gazed at him, he could sense that she cared about his well-being. It made him feel all the more disgusted about the broken plate incident. And perhaps that was why he allowed control to finally slip away from his fingers, horrible as it felt to do so.

On a Tuesday evening in late April, she stood in the entryway to the kitchen holding her backpack. "Erik?" Her tone was cautious yet firm. "I need to meet with a study group."

"When?" he hoarsely asked.

"Now."

"It is late."

"But I need to go. I need to get some notes I missed. I'll be back soon." He stared at her, his fingers curling around the armrest as her eyes pled with him. "Will you be okay here?" she asked.

"It is dark."

"But I _need _to go. Will you be okay here? If not, maybe you could sit in the car and wait for me or…look at the college library collection or…."

It was _that_ tone again, simultaneously loving and patronizing. He was again confronted with the choice of being an infant or a husband. He tried one more time. "You could call them."

She made a frustrated noise. "I need to see their notes. You can come with me, but I have to go."

"I will stay here," he replied, looking away from her in defeat. If he did go, he would be compelled to watch her the entire time. And, the second some boy smiled at her, _his _mind would be pushed in a dangerous direction. "I will not go with you."

"Erik, I _know_ you'll be okay here. I'll call you when I get there."

She left, and he sat in the dark, glaring at the shadow-covered wall for at least five minutes. He wanted to smash something; his Christine was gone that night, and something or someone should pay. After jumping up from the couch, he paced through the house. His fingers ached for something to rip apart or crush or shatter.

But Christine would get upset. Ever since the plate incident, he had not broken anything else.

It also dawned upon him that a year had passed since he had last killed someone. It had been almost a year since _Falcon_ collapsed, and he'd murdered a few of the wench's henchmen in a desperate attempt to discover Christine's location. That realization put a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach—a combination of pride and disappointment. He could not kill anyone; he could not break anything.

He finally fell back down on the couch and stared at the two goldfish. They swam back and forth, over and under each other, behind the castle and around the false rocks. "She will be back soon," he informed them. "She would not leave us. I know she will be back soon. She will."

They ignored him in the same way that they ignored Christine, and he appreciated that. The only time he stood that evening was to answer the phone when Christine called; her voice was briefly soothing. Otherwise, he stayed by the fish, gently pressing his fingers against the glass tank. "She will be back," he continuously stated.

Of course, she did return hours later. Christine glanced around the apartment and asked, "Is everything okay?"

"Yes."

"Good," she murmured, briefly touching his shoulder as she passed by him. Christine headed for the bedroom with a frown on her face and her brow knitted. Wondering if he'd done something to upset her (_again_), he chased after his wife into the room. She was sitting on the edge of their bed and silently crying. He stood there gaping until Christine stared up at him.

"Oh, Erik," she said, her voice muffled by tears. She shook her head. "I felt so stupid. Everyone knew more than me, and I could hardly contribute or understand anything. And I know I'm going to flunk my test. And I'm tired… and my head hurts. And someone honked at me for driving too slow." She sniffled and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, turning her face away from him as though embarrassed. "I'm sorry. I'm just tired. I'll be okay."

His mouth closed, and he was grateful that her tears were not his fault. Unsure of what to do in this type of…situation, he sat on the bed and slowly offered an arm to her. She embraced him and rested her head on his shoulder. _His _wife. Not _theirs_.

He realized that this could be the opportunity to yank her out of school and keep her away from those wretched, baby faced boys. He could tell her it didn't matter…that perhaps he had been wrong and school was not meant for her. She must not worry as he would find a way to take care of her forever. His fingers caressed her hair as he considered this.

Christine looked up at him, a vulnerable glint in her eyes. And he knew that he could not tear her down as the world had done to him.

_He _also wanted to strangle and decapitate his conscience.

"What subject…bothers you?" he reluctantly asked.

"It's this stupid chemistry part in my biology class. Chemistry was a prerequisite, but no one told me, and the online system let me register for it by mistake, and I was too stupid to look it up myself…and—"

"Bring me the book," he interrupted. She removed herself from his arms and retrieved the book before flipping to a very wrinkled page. Mr. Khan had possessed a degree in chemistry and had taught _him_ a good deal about it during his youth. The topic was not extremely complex, and she seemed to understand after he had explained for the third time, her eyes lighting up a little.

She studied it for several minutes and then said, "You're so smart." He grunted. "What'd you do while I was gone?" she asked, her eyes dry now.

"Nothing of interest. Observed the fish."

She laughed. "Yeah. They're fun to watch."

"They are…odd," was his only reply. He didn't add that he would likely kill anyone who dared to harass the goldfish.

The following day, she took her examination and received a _B_, which seemed to please her. Her excitement was short-lived, though, as final exams were approaching. Christine often left the house to study and do research for a paper, and he was left alone with his vile thoughts and the goldfish. She always asked if he would be _okay_ and called him at least once during the day. He still wanted to grab onto her leg to keep her home…or threaten to blow up the campus if she dared leave the house.

He never did, though. He didn't even break any more objects. Instead, he usually stayed beside the fish tank. Some days he was able to stay calm, and the violin provided an outlet for his stress. Other times, he worked himself into a panic as he envisioned worst case scenarios. For example: _What if some boy convinced her to tell the police that there was a deformed and murderous freak illegally living in the city?_ It was a grotesque form of self-pity, but he had only learned so many coping skills in his lifetime.

On one occasion, he became so distraught that he vomited, which forced him into the bathroom where he was closely confronted with the giant mirror. The sight of his face made him sick a second time. At least he managed to crawl back to the couch before she came home. He hoped his breath did not smell like death when she kissed him.

And then, one day, it was all over.

As always, he was sitting beside the fish tank, and she entered the apartment earlier than expected. A few rays of sunlight followed her inside, shining off her hair, but they disappeared when she shut the door. "I'm finished!" she exclaimed.

"Finished with Erik?" He felt as though he had fought a war and was now going to allow her to strike the final blow. In retrospect, perhaps his disturbed emotional state made no sense; she'd never given any real signs that she was about to leave him.

Christine blinked. "Finished with the semester and my classes." She shook her head. "Why would you think…? Oh, Erik. I don't even know…." She looked as though she wished to say more, but a yawn escaped her lips. "Take a nap with me."

"But I am not tired."

She walked to the couch and collapsed beside him. "Then I'll take a nap." Christine rested her head against his shoulder and slept the rest of the afternoon, fingers curled into his shirt. He merely sat with her, not entirely sure what had occurred. Apparently, the world had not fallen apart.

Hours later, she blinked up at him, her hand poking him in the ribs. "I think you've lost weight again."

"It is no matter."

"Yes, it is." She gave him a tired smile. "I think we both need some time to rest."

"And you will stay here?" He needed to hear her say it…again and again…maybe forever.

"Yes, Erik," she replied. "You're going to be with me for so long that you'll get sick of me. Someday, I'll have my grey hair and false teeth, and I'll chase you around the house with my cane."

"You may do that now, if you wish. And I will not get sick of you."

She laughed and then lazily stood up to feed the fish, sprinkling the tiny morsels over the tank with a peaceful expression. There was something so…so…well, no words existed to describe the sight of her feeding those goldfish. A warmth exploded in the center of his heart, a mixture of love and relief.

He sang for her that night. When she first requested to hear his voice—a reward for getting through all her exams, she claimed--he was reluctant. "Whenever I sing," he began, "your eyes become hazy, and I fear you will fall over and bruise your head. Honestly, one would think you would be used to my voice by now."

"Well, I don't hear it enough," she replied. "And who cares if you hypnotize me a little bit? I trust you. It's not like you're going to make me do something I don't already want to do." He started to laugh at the implications, and she turned red and folded her arms. "Erik. You're terrible."

"I know," he replied. "I am in an odd mood."

His singing did lead to other things that evening. Music was always a bit of a…stimulant for them, and perhaps it was his way of reclaiming her as the semester reached its ending.

They spent a few days at home during which Christine rested often, recovering lost sleep. He continued to convalesce after his month-long panic attack as it became more obvious that there had never been any danger of her leaving. His paranoia had blinded him to this truth.

After a week, Christine took a part-time desk job at a bank. He didn't mind, knowing that she always thrived when she could go out into the sunlit world for a few hours. Christine also sang for him often, preparing for the next semester when she could begin focusing on her music. It was possible that she would even have a few performances, and he would be damned if the entire audience did not stand and applaud for her.

Or perhaps the audience would be damned….Ah well. There was plenty of time to dwell on those matters. And the summer was not completely without its own annoyances.

In early June, the phone rang, and Christine answered. She spoke at a low volume and crept into their bedroom, which automatically made him suspicious. As he followed her to listen, he heard her ask, "So who do I need to speak to?" There was a pause, and he heard a pencil scratching against paper. "All right. I got it. Okay. Thank you so much. I'll figure it out. Thank you! Bye!"

"Who was that?" he asked as she emerged.

She hesitated, her face still glowing a little from the conversation. "I'm not sure if you want to know."

"I would not have asked if I did not want to know. Who was it?"

"Well…it's about your music."

He stepped backward. "Perhaps I do not want to know."

It was too late to escape. Christine jubilantly continued speaking, and he wondered if she'd planned this attack. "I got in touch with a publishing agent, and he really liked it. He gave it to someone else, and that person thought it might work for the soundtrack of this independent film. And…I don't know all the details, but it sounded good. And…Erik! They want more from you."

"I do not care."

The excitement faded from her face, and he felt a bit guilty for ruining her mood. "But it's your music," she protested. "I don't understand why you're not happy."

Why wasn't he happy about it? It was rather hard to explain that to her.

He had been an anarchist for some time. He had opposed law and society because equality and justice were blatant lies. Even in a democracy, the rich and powerful would always destroy the weakest. Although his revenge had been driven by the simple desire to watch his enemies writhe in agony while he tortured them, there had always been a vague…feeling that he was fighting against the corrupt social order.

His opinion had not changed even after the end of _Falcon._ Of course, for Christine's sake and love, he had given up his brutality. Since marriage, he'd been living in the middle, not breaking the law but also making no attempt to be a part of wretched society.

And now, Christine was asking him to do just that.

Not wanting to explain all of that to her, he simply said, "I do not care if anyone likes me or my music. I have no use for them or their acceptance."

She frowned, and he knew his explanation was inadequate. "Well…what do you want me to do? Can they still have your music?"

"You may send them my music," he began. His desire to support her and give her normalcy was more important than all else. "I will write you more. But I will not shake anyone's hand, nor will I dress up for a grandiose meeting or dinner and pretend that the entire room is not staring at me, nor will I…. What is that eloquent expression? Kiss anyone's—"

"All right," she interrupted. "I don't expect you to do those things. But I…I'm proud of you."

He squirmed uncomfortably. "What is this film that requires my music?"

"Mm. I'm not sure. I think it's about a famine."

"Ah." That brightened his mood. "Perhaps they will play my music as people are dying."

Christine made her precious little expression of disgust. He might have gone a bit too far, though, for she solemnly said, "I hope it's not too sad."

All he could do was kiss her forehead and tell her that it didn't really matter when they played his music, so long as he was properly compensated for it.

Her vacation also gave her time to spend with Mr. Lewis and his wife. As long as _he_ was not forced to go with her, he didn't care, and the occasional visits seemed to make her happy. He suspected that Christine also enjoyed the child, mainly because he overheard a telephone conversation between her and Mrs. Lewis.

"She's adorable," said Christine into the receiver. "I can tell she's going to have curly hair." There was a pause, and then she laughed. "No. No. No. Not for a long time. I want to concentrate on my music and school. And I want time with Erik; we need to be by ourselves for awhile." Another pause. "Sure! I could babysit sometimes. I'm so sorry that your sitter passed away."

Outside of that exchange, though, there was no mention of that child--or thankfully any other child.

In some ways, he was relieved when Christine wanted to visit someone her own age rather than the Lewis family. It was best if she was not around children too often.

"I might see a movie with this girl from one of my classes," she began one evening. "She just came back to the city and wanted to do something. I didn't think you'd like the movie. It's…girlie."

"You will go with a female?"

"_Yes._ Her name is Sarah. She plays the clarinet and the violin."

"Splendid." He did not really care what _Sarah _did, so long as Sarah was a female.

"Erik?" Christine slowly scooted closer to him; she did that when she wanted to talk about something that would likely disturb him.

"Mm?"

"Do you…." She swallowed. "Do you…um…have friends in this country?"

"Friends? Oh, indeed! Haven't you noticed my constant assortment of dinner parties and galas and other inane social gatherings?" He scoffed. "Where do you get that? Are you mocking me? I have one friend, and she is my wife."

Christine looked down. "No. I'm not mocking you. But I thought that you…um…knew someone here."

"Ah. I had several contacts. Is that what you mean? But they were certainly not friends." They were the reason that people put locks on their doors and kept their children inside. The expression 'who needs enemies' likely applied to them.

"Do they know we're here?" she asked.

"I never made direct contact with them; they were merely pawns when I needed something done."

"So none of them know about us?"

He hesitated and then was honest with her. "There is one man who may know that I am alive. He makes it is his business to know those things. But I doubt he is aware of my precise location."

Christine scooted even closer. "Is he dangerous?"

"Not to us. He has his own odd ethical code and is not particularly vicious. And we ceased communication on good terms." The conversation was tugging on an unpleasant memory at the back of his mind. "He would never harm you, and that is what matters. He has no reason to harm me."

"Oh."

There was…actually a particular reason that he trusted this shady man. Otherwise, _he_ would have considered staying in Europe. It had to do with a conversation that took place over two years ago. Their communication had always occurred over the telephone; they'd never seen each other.

"_You received the information, I assume?" asked the man—known in the underground world as 'the Shade.'_

"_Yes," _he'd_ replied, bloodthirsty and eager. "Lawrence. The younger de Chagny. In one convenient city."_

"_As you can see from the article, there may be a girl involved. His fiancée. You'll have to do some maneuvering to get Raoul de Chagny by himself."_

_There was nothing _he_ hated more than someone putting 'moral' limits on his missions. "They said you enjoyed boring people with details, and they were quite right. I will hang anyone that stands in my way, friend."_

_The Shade paused. "You're talented enough to do this without knocking off innocent bystanders."_

"_But sometimes it takes longer than I prefer to spare useless bystanders. I work without complication. And now that I've paid you well, I trust you will stay out of my business."_

"_Hear me. While I have an appreciation for your cause, I will not assist you any longer if innocent young women start dying during your operations"_

"_Perhaps I no longer need your assistance." _He_ had cackled and hung up the phone._

Of course, Christine had survived, and, as a result, the shady man had been of service several times afterward for less bloody affairs.

"Are there lots of mysterious people like that in the world?" Christine asked, shattering his memories.

He sharply looked down at her. The fear was gone from her face, and her eyes were lit up with curiosity. He wrapped an arm around her waist as though to protect her from his former self. "A good number," he murmured.

"And I married someone mysterious," she said with a smile and a kiss to his cheek.

"Indeed." After a minute, he excused himself to play the violin, which likely confused her, but it was better than explaining himself. The dear girl asked no questions about his behavior once he joined her in bed.

Instead, she asked for something much worse.

"Our anniversary is next week," Christine began, rolling over to rest a hand on his chest. The lights were still on, and he remained clothed.

"It is," he fondly replied_. One year._ "I will take you somewhere."

"That would be nice…but there is something else that I really want."

"And what is that?" He was expecting jewelry; perhaps she would like a diamond.

"To see you," she whispered.

"To see me?" He tilted his head to look down at her.

She stared upward, looking him in the eye. "I don't want the room to be dark. I want to see you."

He understood. "No."

"Why?"

"No," he repeated.

She rolled onto her back and folded her arms. "Erik, I'm sorry about how I reacted to your face the first time. I'm still mad at myself over that. But…I won't be like that again. I promise. I just want to see my husband."

"It has nothing to do with you," he evenly stated. "I _cannot_. If the lights were on, I could only see Erik. I can picture what Erik must look like to you at that…angle. It is like being trapped in a room with myself, and I only wish to get away from Erik."

She sighed. "All right. But, anytime you're ready, I'm ready. I want to see you."

He didn't respond, thinking he would never be ready.

In the end, as with his mask, he was not given a complete choice in the matter. But it was not Christine's fault this time.

Five nights later, a banging crash and dull thud outside the apartment awoke both of them. Within a second, _he_ was beside the door with his lasso in hand, predator blood racing through his veins as he prepared to protect his wife and property. Breathing hard, Christine stood behind him as he peeked out the window. Two figures could be seen quickly walking—no—_rolling_ off into the distance. "It is…morons," he stated. "There is no threat; they are gone."

She came to stand beside him, her shoulders slumping in relief. "It's just some skateboarders," she murmured. "One of them must have fallen or run into the wall. Or maybe they're drunk."

"The idiots were still near _my_ apartment," he growled, continuing to watch the two slouched figures slide down the street.

"It's all right," she murmured. "Let them go." Yawning, she flipped on a lamp. He turned to face her and saw that she was staring at his upper torso with an unreadable, wide-eyed expression. He realized that he was not wearing a shirt; there had been no time in his dash to the door.

Feeling trapped, he started to head for the bedroom.

"Wait!" Christine begged. "Please. Let me see you at least."

He silently stood there, staring at the wall as she walked closer to him. It was all he could do; his muscles were too frozen for him to make any attempt to cover himself. He only flinched once when her hands touched his stomach and back, creeping over the half-grey, half-yellowed flesh that was dotted with purple discolorations and scars. Most of his bones also appeared as though they were ready to pop out of the skin. The most grotesque was near his right shoulder blade. A whitish scar there created the illusion that the bone _had_ torn through the skin. He heard Christine draw in her breath at the sight. She lightly touched the area with one finger.

As she continued her exploration of the mess, he allowed himself to float into a haze—not an insane haze but rather a fog of apathy. If she became ill at the sight, it would not hurt as much.

After she was finished, Christine embraced him, but he was unable to return it. He could only stand there like a rabbit in shock, his body frozen. "Erik? Are you okay?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Let's go back to bed now." Christine took him by the elbow and pulled him into the bedroom. After he'd taken a seat, she said, "I'm going to get you some water. I'll be back in a second. All right?"

"Yes."

She returned and handed him the glass, continuing to watch him as he drank. "Are you okay?"

The water cleared his mind and loosened his muscles. "Are you still sleeping in this room?"

"Of course!"

"Then I am fine." He settled back onto the pillow, feeling extremely relieved when she finally turned off the vile light and rested beside him. "It is very bad, no?" he asked.

"It's kind of what I expected," she replied.

"I suppose after my face, nothing will ever seem quite as horrific, eh?"

She didn't reply to the statement, only tucking herself into the crook of his arm. After a second, she said, "If that had been a real robber, you would have won."

"That is…likely."

She latched onto him, her protector. And his dignity was returned just as quickly as it had been stripped away from him.

Over the next few weeks, he allowed her to view him for short periods of time. Although she was always gentle, it would take many more months for him to be intimate with the lights shining over his cadaverous body. Unless the room was completely dark, he could only motionlessly lie there while she touched him.

When intimacy did finally occur, it was mercifully brief and ended with him burying his face into her bosom and sobbing like a pathetic infant.

After that incident, he assumed she'd make every attempt to keep the lights off. But she didn't. And, as always, time slowly repaired these matters.


	15. Chapter 15

Hi, guys. It's been a bit of a stressful week, and I got a little behind on my writing. As with last time, I decided to break up the Raoul and E/C sections. So here is a fairly short Raoul-centric vignette. The E/C one should be done within the next week. I would recommend reading this Raoul vignette, though. There is a part that you might find kind of…interesting ;)

Thank you all for the reviews on the last vignette. Thanks to _MadLizzy _for editing.

**Read and Review!!**

The Appalachian Mountains hadn't changed a bit from when Raoul had last visited them with Christine. That spring, Raoul took Melanie up to his favorite lodge amidst a thick, green forest. The damp smell of shrubbery floated through the cool air, and the animals had recently come out of hibernation. If he had gone up there by himself, the atmosphere would have seemed lonely. With Melanie, though, the gentle breeze and distant sounds of birds helped to clear his mind.

They dressed in sweats and jeans for most of their visit, and it was nice not to have to worry about appearances for a few days. Melanie wore her hair in a pony tail, and it created a nice poof of brown curls. Ever since he'd graduated college, Raoul had felt the need to stay in business-casual dress while in public, probably due in part to his father's words: _Don't let anyone tell you appearances don't matter. Look your best, son, and you'll get farther in life. _

Those words were entirely true--which was why Raoul was happy to escape the civilized world for awhile.

They went hiking, canoeing, and sat by the lake just to enjoy the scenery. They'd started to go rock-climbing, but Melanie had decided it wasn't 'her thing,' and he hadn't been thrilled about ascending jagged rocks, anyway. After all he'd been through, why get killed now? While they both liked the outdoors, neither of them was an adrenaline-hungry thrill seeker.

Sometimes they didn't say much to each other. Other times, Raoul would reveal bits and pieces about his life as they walked along muddy trails, including tidbits about his father's involvement in _Falcon_. The only topic that was off-limits was the relationship between Erik and Christine, mainly because it was confusing and…weird. _My old girlfriend is married to the guy that kidnapped us and nearly killed me…okay?_ At best, Melanie would console him and tell him how terrible that was. At worst, she'd want to call the police. Raoul _really _didn't want to deal with it.

"Are you having fun?" Melanie asked one evening as they rested in their room. The dark wood of the furniture made the atmosphere seem dim even when the lights were on.

"Yeah," he earnestly replied. "It's good to be here again."

"You still look a little tense."

Raoul chuckled. "After the last few years, it's going to take another year in the mountains to get me completely unwound."

She rested her head on his broad shoulder, snuggling closer as though she were cold. Raoul spoke again after a moment, his voice hesitant. "After we get back home, I…uh…may need to go back to London and settle some things."

"Oh. For how long?"

"Could be a few weeks to a month."

"Oh. Wow…." There was slight disappointment in her voice.

"Want to come?" he asked.

She sat up and turned to face him with wide eyes. "To London? Really?" He nodded, suddenly feeling upbeat. "Yes! I'd love to! I went to Spain once in high school, but that's the only time I've ever been out of the country. I'd love to see England."

"I can't say it'll be fun all the time. I might have to leave for long meetings. But I'm sure we could see some of the city."

"Do whatever you need to do. I'm sure I can keep myself occupied. I love hotels and shopping and everything. But…it might take some time for me to get everything ready to go."

"That's fine. I won't be leaving for a little while. Take your time." Raoul was already arranging a few meetings, including one that was making his stomach turn with anxiety. He blocked it from his mind for the moment, not wanting to ruin the trip.

After returning home, he helped Melanie get her passport renewed and arranged for their airline tickets. He was grateful that she was going; it made the affair easier because London still held a lot of bad memories. At least she was excited about it, calling her friends and telling them where her boyfriend was taking her…promising to buy them souvenirs. It was nice to have someone to make happy again; he missed Christine's appreciative smiles.

Their flight to England, cab ride, and hotel check-in went smoothly. As planned, he spent a lot of time meeting with lawyers and accountants, trying to make sure that the victims were getting their money. Plants had been closed all across the world, and the environmental damages were still being assessed. As of now, it was organized chaos, and Raoul still had a difficult time determining whether all of the suit-and-tie men were being honest with him.

He also took Melanie to see the tourist attractions, everything from the theatre district to Covent Garden to Buckingham Palace. While there was no doubt that this trip to London was a hundred times better than the last one, an uncomfortable feeling lingered in Raoul's stomach. And it only got worse toward the end of their stay. During their last week in the city, it was time to do what he was dreading the most…but needed to do for closure.

"I'm going to a meeting," he stated one morning as he put on a navy tie. "I'll be gone for most of the day."

"Okay," Melanie replied, glancing up from a tourist brochure. She studied him. "Are you all right? You're kind of pale."

"I'm fine. A little worn out."

"Maybe you should take a nap first." She patted the spot on the bed beside her.

He was glad that he had her to come back to after this meeting. "I'd better get it done. We'll grab dinner when I get back."

"Good luck. And show those lawyers who's boss!"

A choked laugh escaped his throat. "I will…."

It was a decent ride to his final destination. Thick bile gathered in his throat as he stepped out of the cab and walked into the air-conditioned building. He immediately went to the front desk to give them his name and the name of whom he wanted to see. After his identification and visiting order were checked, Raoul was directed toward the visitor center. His footsteps thudded against the spotless linoleum as he walked down the cold corridor. He then sat in a waiting room until his name was called. The occasional grim-faced guard passed by him without a second glance. Raoul could feel his heart pounding, and his hands clenched and unclenched.

_Get a grip. Chill._

After about twenty minutes, he was called into the visiting room. A guard patted him down to check for prohibited items; thankfully, Raoul had left everything but his wallet in the car. He slowly sat down in a hard plastic chair at a circular table. Within a few minutes, _she_ was escorted inside.

She sat across the table from him, dressed in a standard grey uniform and appearing much older. Her shoulder-length hair limply fell over one side of her face, streaked with blonde and grey now. He noticed that her breathing was deep…almost raspy. Traces of scar lines peeked out from behind her hair.

The green eyes stared at him with indifference. "Raoul. How are you?" Her voice was slightly muffled but clear enough that he could understand.

Raoul gathered himself together. "Leonie. Hello." He swallowed. "How are they treating you?"

"I'm…left alone. A high profile inmate."

"I see," he murmured. "That's good."

"What have you been doing this past year?" she asked. He couldn't read her tone.

"I've been getting things straightened out." Raoul was subconsciously waiting for something. "There's a lot to manage."

"I can only imagine," she replied. "All that mess to clean up. You must be…_exhausted_."

"I'm doing well," he evenly replied. "It's all coming together nicely."

"Wonderful."

"Yes. I've been pleased with the results." He momentarily broke eye contact. And the second he let his guard down, she took a shot at him.

"Whatever happened to Christine?" she asked.

He tensed. "She's fine."

"With you?"

"That's not any of your business," he replied.

"I bet I know who she's with. That must keep you up at night."

Raoul's jaw clenched, and he began to realize that he was not going to get what he wanted that day. "That is not your business, and I'm not going to sit here and play games with you."

"Well, why _are_ you here?" Leonie asked, leaning back in the chair. "I was very curious when they said you wanted to visit."

"To put all this behind me," he replied. "And because my father knew you for years; I felt I should check on you."

The visible portion of her mouth twitched upward. "That's…very sweet of you."

He glanced at the table, already feeling exhausted. "Maybe I shouldn't have come. I thought maybe you'd have more to say to me after all this time."

"More to say? What are you looking for, dear? An apology? Fine. I'm sorry that you've ruined your life."

"You're wrong. I'm perfectly fine now that you're no longer interfering."

"Hm."

"Don't you have anything to say to me?" he harshly whispered. "_You tried to have me killed."_

A short laugh escaped her colorless lips. "I tried to make you the richest, most successful man in the world. I was going to give you everything. And now? You're miserable, thousands of people are out of work, your precious victims aren't seeing a dime, and—"

"They _are_ seeing the money," he snapped. "All of it."

"You're still naïve. You think that the world is suddenly pure because I'm in here? The minute that my company collapsed, all the greasiest lawyers and con artists went after that money. And the uneducated, impoverished masses won't know what hit them."

"Why are you such a horrible person?" he asked, trying to keep her words from placing a thread of doubt in his mind.

"I'm a _practical_ person," she replied. Leonie frowned, appearing genuinely bothered and discouraged for a moment. "Only at the end, I let my emotions get the better of me."

"Thank God for that."

"God had nothing to do with it; our yellow-eyed Devil was responsible."

Raoul shook his head. He would get no words of regret from her; it was time to leave. "Enjoy your life here," he muttered, preparing to stand.

"I will. All one or two years of it."

Raoul started. "You're here a lot longer than that."

She laughed, an unpleasant grinding sound. "No, dear. I'm actually dying. Isn't that funny? It was diagnosed two weeks ago. A nasty little lump on…well, you know. And I don't really plan on fighting it. What's the point, right? I've lived my life."

Maybe he shouldn't have said it, but the words came out anyway. "I'm sorry."

"You really are," she replied. "You'll spend the rest of your life being sorry. Just like your father."

Raoul left after that, unable to stop a single angry tear from trailing down his cheek as he was escorted back to the front of the building. Before climbing in the cab, he took several deep breaths to calm himself down. The ride back to the hotel slightly relaxed him, but the evidence of his distress was still present on his face.

"What happened to you?" Melanie asked as he walked in the door. "You look…really tired."

That probably meant he looked awful. "Nothing happened." Raoul removed his tie and tossed it to the side.

"Come on. Tell me. Was it a really crazy lawyer?"

He sighed. "I visited Leonie in prison."

"You did what? Why?"

"I don't know. But my God, she was still a bi—a horrible person."

"What did you want from her?"

"I…really don't know." Raoul rubbed both hands over his face and sat down on the bed. "I shouldn't have gone. It was a stupid waste of time." He paused and then added, "She's dying of cancer."

"Oh. Wow. That's…I don't know…." He must have really looked drained because Melanie then said, "I'll order room service for dinner." After making the call, she sat beside him on the edge of the bed.

Raoul stared at the turquoise carpet in thought. As much as he hated to admit it, Leonie was right about something; it was impossible to rid the world of wrongness. It would be an endless fight with enough ups and downs to drive someone insane. And he didn't want to spend the rest of his life being…sorry. None of this was his fault, anyway.

He spoke, wanting to put his thoughts into words. "For a little while, I was thinking about going to law school and fighting all this…corruption. It seemed like my mission or something. You know what? I don't want to. Maybe it's not noble or…whatever, but I want to get away from this. After this stuff with _Falcon_ is over, I'm done."

"I don't blame you," she replied. "I wouldn't want to be around this all the time."

"You don't see it as giving up?"

"No! From what I understand, your dad messed up—not you. Don't make yourself miserable."

"Yeah. You're right. Maybe I'll start my own small company. One that's not evil. It could sell sports or outdoors equipment or…anything."

"That sounds fun," she agreed. "I could ask my grandma how she started her store."

"Great. I'll have to think about it for awhile." His mind was swirling with new ideas and possibilities, but he also didn't want to lose her in the process of his reinvention. In other words, he didn't want to freak her out. "You're okay with it, right? I don't want to mess up your plans."

"I don't really have any big plans yet. Maybe to put my degree to use, but that's about it."

"As long as you're okay."

"I'm fine," she replied. "Hey, I'm in London right now!"

"Great!" They both awkwardly laughed at their random burst of excitement.

Leonie was dying. Somewhere down the hall, an infant was wailing. And Raoul and Melanie sat on the bed watching television until room service knocked on the door with two plates of steak and potatoes, along with two slices of lemon meringue pie. Life went on without excuses or apologies.

Maybe he couldn't save the world, but he could live in it.


	16. Chapter 16

Hi, guys. Thank you all for putting up with another Raoul chapter. Here's a nice E/C vignette to make up for it.

We are jumping through time a little faster now. My belief is that some character development takes place through major events, and other (more subtle) development just takes place over time.

Thank you all for your support. Thanks to _MadLizzy _for editing.

**Read and Review!!**

They were closer by the time summer ended.

Erik relaxed throughout the warmer months, seemingly content with her and his music. Now that he had no more of himself to hide from her, he let his guard down whenever they were alone. Christine noticed the smaller things--such as him changing his shirt in front of her or allowing her to give him a quick haircut. She'd had to bite her tongue to keep from laughing when Erik grumbled that she was going to ruin the little hair he had left.

She was afraid he would become upset again when she returned to school. Erik was slightly anxious as she prepared to leave for her first day of the semester, following her around the house as she dressed and brushed her hair. When he bid her goodbye, though, there was more confidence in his kiss. And he merely said, "I will see you in the afternoon."

"Take care of my fish," she ordered.

"I shall cook them for your dinner."

"Erik!" She didn't believe he would. Although he never admitted it, Erik seemed to…respect the fish. He'd even started feeding them on occasion; it gave her hope for a cat someday.

Her classes were less threatening, mostly music history and other liberal arts courses that wouldn't have her pulling out her own hair. Christine was also involved in two solo performances that semester. She'd considered joining a college chorus, too, but Erik didn't want her "blending into an inferior crowd."

She'd replied, "I'd probably end up being the inferior one."

"My wife is not inferior!" Erik had boomed. "She is superior to everyone!"

It was one of the instances when she decided not to argue with him; a chorus might take up too much time, anyway.

At least every other night, Erik devoted his time to preparing her for the performances. Occasionally, he could be a little harsh, but she began to hold her ground whenever he crossed the line. "You are not even trying!" he exclaimed one night. "Where is your focus? On some _boy_ at school?"

"I'm trying as hard as I can!" she had snapped. "And my focus is on all the homework that I still have to do tonight!" Her back and legs were sore from standing there and practicing all evening.

Instead of yelling at her again, Erik had blinked and then declared they'd done enough for one night. Although they had the occasional spat, they never stayed angry at each other for more than a day. It wasn't really in her nature to hold a grudge. And, after an argument, Erik would eventually start following her around the apartment until she smiled at him or gave some other sign that all was forgiven.

By the time of her first performance, both of them felt she was ready to sing.

"You'll come, right?" she asked one October night as she put on a pair of gold earrings. Her stomach churned, and her hands were cold. It was her first time performing on a stage in years, and she…needed him there.

"Of course," he fondly replied. "I would never miss your voice."

Erik rode to the college campus with her and walked down the sidewalk and toward the entryway of the auditorium. With one glance at the glaring lights in the building, though, he took a step backward. "I will see you at the end," he stated.

"No one would notice you," she said, hating the idea of him hiding in some cobwebbed corner. "You can come in with me and sit in the audience."

"They will notice," he replied. "There is far too much light and not enough space. Go inside. I will see you later." He disappeared before she could protest again. Christine sighed and went inside.

The night was filled with solo performances, choruses, and several orchestra groups. She sang a less difficult soubrette piece, and the enthusiastic applause that followed made her think it went well. Her strategy was to focus on singing only for herself and Erik, making the rest of the crowd disappear from her vision and mind.

At the end, Christine took off her high heels and ran barefoot outside to meet him, briefly reminded of the time Erik had first returned to her. He stepped out from behind a corner of the building, and she ran into the shadows and embraced him. "Where did you hide?" she asked.

"I am everywhere!"

"But where were you tonight?"

"Behind a curtain." He sounded irked, but his tone quickly softened. "But I could hear you perfectly."

"How'd I do? Honestly?"

"Very well save for a few of the higher notes. But we will work on them."

Christine hooked her arm into his, and they walked to the car. As she started the engine, she noticed Erik suddenly twitch and then turn his head toward the passenger window. Christine started to ask him what was wrong, but a knock on her window caused her to jump. She turned around to see someone standing beside the car. It was Sarah, who had also performed that night on the violin. After murmuring an apology to Erik, Christine rolled down her window.

"Hi there!" said Sarah. "I saw you and thought I'd say 'hi.' You did really well tonight."

"Hi," Christine replied after finding her voice. "Thanks. You did well, too."

"Thanks!" Sarah peeked into the car, trying to get a glimpse of Erik.

Christine shifted. "This is my husband."

"Oh." She continued to squint at the back of Erik's head. "Hi!"

Erik didn't say anything, keeping his face turned toward the window.

"Well," began Christine, clearing her throat. "I guess I'd better get going. Nice to see you."

"You, too," she replied, her eyes never leaving Erik.

Slightly annoyed, Christine rolled up her window and backed out of the parking space a little faster than she meant to do so. Erik said, "Her violin was out of tune."

Christine laughed. "Really? She's nice enough, though."

He made a noise but said nothing else, and they drove home.

To Christine's dismay, Sarah questioned her about Erik the next week. "What does your husband do?"

"He writes music," Christine replied, pretending to focus on a textbook.

"Is he shy?"

"Um…kind of."

"Aw!" Sarah exclaimed. "Where'd you meet him?"

"Um…work."

"What kind of work?"

Christine excused herself to go to class, even though it didn't start for another thirty minutes. It wasn't that Sarah was afraid of Erik as Marisol had been, but she seemed to see him almost like an exotic animal. On the positive side, at least Sarah wasn't going to run around telling people about the "scary man." Still, Christine made it a point to avoid her over the next few weeks.

Outside of that, though, the rest of the semester was peaceful. In November, Erik received a paycheck in the mail for his music. He refused to pay attention to it, but she still thrust the check into his hands and kissed him. He only said, "You may buy yourself something." Maybe she was mistaken, but Christine thought she heard slight satisfaction in his voice. And he did give her other compositions to send to the publisher, still insisting that he remain anonymous.

For all the peace and normalcy of the first semester, though, the next year started off on a somber tone. Although some might have questioned her judgment during the events, Christine always felt that she came out stronger and wiser after the ordeal.

It was early January, and Christine was curled up on the couch with a blanket over her legs, watching the local news with Erik. She was half-asleep, and the stern voice of the anchorman caused her to open her eyes.

"Early this morning, a neighbor discovered the body of twenty-year-old Dianna Monroe right outside of her condominium. Police are interviewing possible witnesses and have released little information…."

She briefly frowned at the television and then dozed off again after a few moments. It was one of the nights that Erik carried her to bed.

The next chilling report came three days later, and she was fully awake for the broadcast. Erik was out that night on a walk, stretching his legs and enjoying his freedom. He'd invited her to join him, but she'd pulled a muscle in her shoulder while vacuuming and wanted to rest that evening.

The female reporter's face was grim as she spoke toward the camera. "The body of twenty-seven-year-old Ashley Purcell was found in a dumpster right off Chestnut Street. Police have revealed that this may be the work of a serial killer and are investigating previous cold cases to see if there are any similarities. Both recent victims were young, white females, and authorities say the closeness in time and location of the two murders reveals that the perpetrator is willing to take risks."

"God," Christine murmured, her stomach turning once. Chestnut Street was only about a fifteen minute drive from their apartment.

Erik returned an hour or so later, and she was happy to have him back with her. He never commented on the murders, but, over the next week, he accompanied her whenever she went out at night. Christine never protested.

A third murder, also of a young girl, occurred a week later. The day after Christine watched the report on the news, Gavin phoned her and asked if she'd like to visit for awhile. She agreed to meet him at a café; it'd been some time since they'd gotten together.

After picking up her new textbooks from the college bookstore, she met him at the coffeehouse. It was a cute place that had a fake straw roof and was designed to look like a little hut.

"Hey," Gavin greeted her. His eyes were ringed with dark circles. "What's up?"

"Hi. Not much. I could use some hot chocolate." She put in her order and sat down across from him, continuing to notice his knitted brow. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah," he replied. "You?"

"Yeah. I'm good. School is starting again soon."

"Great."

She laughed. "Yeah. No more being lazy." Gavin released a half-hearted chuckle. "How's Rose?"

"She's good. Growing up fast."

"Great!" Christine studied him. "You don't look too happy. What's wrong?"

He hesitated and then softly said, "The…uh…murders."

"I know!" She lowered her voice. "Aren't they terrible? I keep hoping they catch the guy. Erik's been going with me everywhere at night."

"Yeah…." He paused again. "Don't tell anyone else this. I…uh…accidentally came across it at work, but the public isn't supposed to know yet. All right?" She nodded and leaned in. "The victims have all been strangled."

"Oh! That's terrible. And it shows it's the same guy."

"Yeah. It's scary…." Gavin was staring intently at her.

"It is." She shifted. "I hope they catch him."

"Yeah. Still no suspects."

"I…." She caught his gaze and slowly began to understand. Her mouth dropped open, and she flinched backward with a scowl, face flushing in anger. "How could you even think that?" Christine snapped.

"I don't think anything," he replied with alarm. "I just thought you should know everything."

"You wouldn't have called me here if you didn't think _that_!" She wished they were in a more private place. Luckily, there wasn't anyone else there besides the employees.

"I thought you should know that this is like the return of the Boston Strangler. For your own safety."

Christine squinted at him, her disgust growing. "_He _has never gone around hurting random people for no reason," she whispered. "He has _never _done that. In fact, you don't even know him now. You don't ever come visit him. He's doing really well."

"He doesn't want me to come visit him!"

"He might appreciate—oh, never mind! It doesn't matter. But he's not responsible for this!"

Gavin held up his hands in self-defense. "All right. All right. I believe you. I do. I thought I should tell you. Okay? If he'd been acting suspicious or disappearing at night or something. Just in case…."

"I'm leaving," she declared, standing up. Tears of anger pricked her eyes. Christine grabbed her hot chocolate off the counter and marched toward the door.

"Christine! I was being a friend! I wasn't trying to--"

Before he could finish, she walked out the door in a huff and headed home, heart pounding in anger. "How could he even suggest that?" she muttered to herself as she drove. Maybe she'd lost a friend that day.

After coming home, Christine started to make dinner. Her hands were trembling as she lit the burner, and she ended up dropping a can of tomatoes on the floor. Muttering under her breath, she fell to her knees and began to clean up the goopy mess with a wet paper towel.

"Christine?" Erik stood above her, watching her work with his head tilted. "Your visit was short. But perhaps Mr. Lewis makes for very dull conversation?"

She grunted.

"What is wrong?"

Tossing the damp paper towel aside, she stood up and shrugged. "Nothing," she replied. "I'm tired, I guess."

"Ah. You do not need to cook. I am perfectly satisfied with bread and cheese. You are the one who insists on these large meals."

Not hungry herself, Christine gratefully took him up on the offer. _Stupid Gavin. He doesn't even know Erik now. How could he even think that? Jerk! _She hadn't felt this angry since dealing with _Falcon_.

Erik went for another walk that night. He again asked her if she would like to accompany him, and the question was nearly too much for her. Christine wanted to go and take a breath of fresh night air…to be at his side, but was that like keeping an eye on Erik? She _trusted_ her husband, and it was Gavin's fault that this was even on her mind.

"Christine? Do you wish to go or not?"

"No," she replied. "I'm tired. You go. Have fun."

He nodded and left, locking the door behind him. When he returned about two hours later, she was lying awake in bed. Once he was beside her, she cuddled up against him. _Her_ Erik.

Three days later, another body was found, this time in a restaurant bathroom. Upon hearing the story on the morning news, Christine released a frustrated cry. "Why can't they catch him?"

"He is bold," stated Erik, obviously not realizing that she hadn't wanted an answer to her question. "Perhaps he will prove too bold in the end. And he enjoys the game with police. If he enjoyed the actual kill more than the game with authorities, he would keep a wider geographical distance between victims." He paused. "I wonder what his method is."

Christine turned to look up at her husband. Maybe it was the way her hand tightened on his arm…or maybe it was merely the general aura that settled around them…but Erik suddenly sensed her anger.

"What exactly is on your mind?" There was an edge in his voice as he stared down at her.

"Nothing," she replied, shaking her head. "Just that I hope they catch him."

"You are upset…."

"Yes. About this."

The yellow eyes studied her. "Something has bothered you for several days."

She squirmed. "Of course it has. Girls my age are dying!"

"You are thinking…."

"What?"

"You think Erik is responsible," he finally accused in a harsh, horrified whisper.

"I do not!" she exclaimed. "I have never thought that!"

"You do think that!" He jumped up from the couch.

"I don't!" she pled, leaping up with him and reaching out her hands.

"I know where I am! I know where I was! I am not mad! _I did not do this!_"

"I believe you! I never thought it was you!" Before he could run away from her, she grabbed him by his narrow shoulders. "I _never_ thought that. _Ever._" She looked him in the eye. "You make me feel safe—not scared."

He was breathing heavily as he stared down at her, maybe debating whether to trust her. Her own heart was hammering in her ears.

She continued speaking while she had his attention. "I'm upset over this. That's it. I hate that some guy is strangling girls my age; it upsets me. But I never thought--"

"Strangling?" he interrupted in a raspy voice. "Why do you assume that was the method of murder?"

"Because…." She froze, realizing her mistake.

"Why, Christine?" He put his index finger beneath her chin and forced her to look at him. "Why do you think that? Even I did not know that."

She knew that it was no time to lie. "Gavin said so. He heard it from a private source in the media. I wasn't supposed to tell anyone."

"Lewis put the idea in your mind, didn't he?" Erik's eyes narrowed.

"He just...told me about the deaths. But I…I didn't want to talk to him for very long. I didn't ever think it was you." Christine was prepared for a tirade against Gavin, carefully laced with creative and gruesome threats.

"I do not want him in my house or my view," Erik only said through gritted teeth. "I do not want him near me."

"All right," she nearly whispered. "I don't want to see him either." She pulled on her husband's hand. "Here. Sit back down with me." The last thing Christine wanted was for Erik to lock himself up in a room and drown in self-loathing, especially over a stupid false accusation. He'd been doing so well….

Erik slowly sat beside her, obviously still shaken and angry. He was quiet throughout the rest of the day, often sitting beside the fish tank and staring at Romeo and Juliet. Christine was given some reassurance, though, when he spoke to her that evening. "You did not leave," he softly stated as she slipped on her cotton pajamas.

"What?" she asked.

"If you thought I was the strangler, you would have run away, no?" Thankfully, he didn't expect her to actually answer that question. "And you stayed, which means you believed me innocent."

"I never thought it was you," she stated, placing a hand to his bare cheek. "I love you. I _know_ you. And I am _not_ leaving." His eyes told her that he believed her.

Over the next week, she refused to answer the phone when Gavin called. Maybe it was unfair, but Christine felt the need to take Erik's side completely.

On a wonderful Friday afternoon, it finally came over the news that a suspect had been apprehended at a bar. The television screen showed a photograph of a bulky man in his thirties with dark blond hair and stubble, staring smugly at the camera. "They have the correct person," Erik stated with one glance at him. "Look at his eyes. He is...bloodthirsty."

And that was the end of it.

Or, rather, that was the end of the murders—not of all her problems.

Sarah called one night later asking questions about homework. The conversation was going well until Sarah said, "Maybe your husband could help us with the answer."

"I think he's busy," Christine replied.

"What's he up to?"

"I don't know."

"He works at home, right?"

"I don't want to talk about my husband anymore," Christine firmly stated. "It's my private personal life."

"_Sor-_ry," Sarah muttered, obviously offended. They hung up soon afterward.

Christine understood now. She'd subconsciously denied the truth for too long, and it was time to face the facts. No matter how much Erik improved, people wouldn't necessarily improve with him. At best, he was an object of curiosity to them--something to be stared at and studied. At worst, he was a threat.

She spent several days just being plain angry over this. Erik received her deepest affections while everyone else got the cold shoulder. She tried to put her focus into her studies and music, attempting to ignore people. The onslaught of negative feelings damaged her concentration, though, and Christine was left feeling helpless and tired.

As they were eating dinner one night, Erik stared at her for several minutes, studying her tense features.

She finally asked, "What's wrong? Do I have food on my mouth?"

"No."

"What's wrong, then?"

He hesitated. "You are…distressed."

"I'm fine," she replied.

"No. You are odd as of late."

"Tired, I guess."

"Do not lie to me," he commanded. "You are upset. You yelled at the fish today."

"I didn't yell at the fish. I bumped the table and almost knocked off the tank; it was just a shout of surprise."

Erik folded his arms against his chest. "You will tell me what is wrong. Is it a professor? An idiot boy? Erik will help you take care of it."

She swallowed, rubbing her hands together beneath the table. "It's…."

"What, Christine?"

"I want…." She tried to think of how to put it into words. "I want people to leave you alone."

"To leave me alone?"

"To not…bother you and judge you. I trusted Gavin, and he--I can't trust anyone! They're either really curious or have accusations or…and I don't want them to hurt you." She stared at the table and continued to wring her hands, not sure what Erik's reaction would be.

"Ah." He became very quiet. She didn't think he was angry because he stayed in the kitchen instead of locking himself away in the bedroom.

"I'll be fine soon," she assured him, attempting a smile. "It's been a weird couple of weeks."

His expression was a mix of confusion and frustration, as though he had spent hours trying to put a complicated puzzle together, only to find that the last piece was missing. He didn't reply until nearly thirty minutes later, after the dishes were washed and they had gone into the living room.

"I hate most people," he loudly declared, causing her to sharply look up from a furniture catalogue. "I do. It is very possible that I will always hate them."

"I know," she replied. "I under--"

"But I do not wish that for you, too," he swiftly interrupted. "It is not…right for you. Oh, do not misunderstand. I would be ecstatic to have you all to myself. It is a fantasy that the world will explode, and Erik will have no choice but to take you underground and…. But you are too precious to stay like that. You should not be bitter and pale and always fighting. "

"But--"

"No. I could not bear it if Er--I ruined you."

"Erik, you didn't ruin me," she whispered. "I just understand better now, I think."

"You do not need to understand any of it. I only need you to stay."

"But I had to understand…eventually…."

"Perhaps," he murmured, unusually resigned. "But you should not let it devour you."

"I won't." She took his hand and entwined their fingers together. "If we're doing well, after I'm out of school, maybe we could buy a home or rent a townhouse outside of the city."

He glanced up at her. "You would like that?"

"Yes. It would be peaceful and more private. And we could still go to the city sometimes."

"And you will still sing, and I will watch you?"

"Yeah." She smiled, feeling warmly optimistic. "Just like now except we'll have more peace and quiet." She leaned in and nuzzled his cheek with her nose. "And when we travel, we can stay in nice hotels."

"We will do that," he stated, sounding relieved. Erik pressed his fingers against her forehead as though trying to smooth out the lines. "And you will be happy."

"I am happy," Christine stated, placing her hand over his. And she was. Only now, she had different expectations.

Over the next few days, she did get over her anger. Unlike Erik, she hadn't been through something traumatic enough to give her a permanent grudge. When Gavin called again, she answered the phone and agreed to meet with him at the same coffee shop. His voice was strained as he repeatedly apologized. Situated by the goldfish, Erik merely grunted when she told him where she was going.

The beginning of her conversation with Gavin was predictable. "I'm sorry," he said, over and over. "It was screwed up to say that to you. I'd been having a rough week, and I was creeped out by the whole thing."

She accepted his apology, acknowledging that it was scary when something like that happened.

Gavin then surprised her by saying, "I'm off an assignment for a couple of weeks. In Turkey."

Her eyes widened. "Really?"

"Yup. Should be an adventure." He paused. "Marisol isn't thrilled, but she'll be okay."

"Oh. Well, at least Rose has grown up a little."

"Yeah!"

Over steaming cups of coffee, they exchanged a few more pleasantries and talked about their lives. Gavin had sent his book to a publisher and was waiting for a response. She congratulated him and told him about Erik's music. Gavin applauded Erik. Finally, they said goodbye and went their separate ways. Something had changed between them over the last months. Gavin was no longer her safety net; she didn't need one. Hopefully, they could still be friends.

Upon returning home, she kissed Erik. Knowing he wouldn't be interested in the details of her and Gavin's conversation, she only said, "Gavin is going on a trip to Turkey for his job."

Erik glanced up but didn't say anything.

"I'm not sure how Marisol feels about him being away for so long," Christine continued. "But…I guess that's not really our responsibility now." She sat on the couch and tucked her feet beneath her, nibbling on her bottom lip.

Erik returned to his book on the Middle East, and she picked up a textbook. They read together under the dim glow of the lamps. About ten minutes later, Erik suddenly said, "I would never leave _my_ wife."

Christine blinked and started to defend Gavin. Then, she stopped—not because she thought Gavin was guilty of anything, but because there was the hint of pride in Erik's voice.

"I know you wouldn't," she softly agreed.

Shoulders straightened, Erik returned to his book.

After fondly watching him for a few moments, she scooted over so that their arms were touching. With a sigh of contentment, she returned to her book.


	17. Chapter 17

Hi, guys. Sorry for the delay. I've found a job and have moved, and it may take me awhile to settle in and get my life together. Assuming nothing too crazy happens, I'll try to give you a new chapter every two or three weeks. I'm not sure how much more we have to go, but I'd say it's definitely less than ten chapters.

Thank you for all your amazing support. Thanks to _MadLizzy _for editing.

**Read and Review!!**

"I have a bit of a suspicion," the middle-aged man began, eyeing Christine with a smile that was half-hidden beneath his short beard.

She tensed. "What's that?"

Mr. Richardson held up the composition she had just handed him and waved it at her. "I think this is all really your work, but you're afraid that there's a certain…stigma that comes with being a female composer. You're afraid people won't take you seriously. But let me tell you, Mrs. Ackart, that your work is of such high quality that it wouldn't matter. Every time, you surprise me with something new and fascinating. You're brilliant!"

Christine blinked, wondering how to respond. On the one hand, she could protect Erik's privacy by pretending the music really was hers. On the other hand, she didn't want to dig herself into a hole. What if they asked her technical questions about it?

"I…It's my little secret," she replied. She tried a playful grin, but it probably came off as silly.

He laughed, and the sound was rich and pleasant. Christine wondered if he had ever been a singer. "But this is the type of talent that gets awards and recognition. You should embrace your genius and let the whole world know!" Her eyes started to fill with tears. Mr. Richardson's smiled faded, and he leaned back. "I'm sorry. I'm being a bit forward."

"It's not my work," she stated, looking down. "It really isn't. I can't take credit for it."

"I see. Well…tell Mr. or Ms. Anonymous that he or she is very impressive."

"I will."

"Also tell him or her that I'd be honored to have a meeting with them…him...her?" He chuckled. "You can tell I wasn't an English major."

She softly laughed and looked back up. "It's a him."

"Give him my thanks and praise, then."

"I will. Thank you so much."

Christine left soon afterward. She liked Mr. Edward Richardson. Over the last few years, he had been helpful and supportive, never trying to take advantage of her…or Erik. Still, she could tell it was driving him crazy that he didn't know who _Mr. Anonymous _was. Mr. Richardson was a very sociable man, and she guessed that he liked having as many connections as possible.

The air was cold and crisp as she stepped outside. It was the March of her last semester in school, and she'd been married for about three and half years. She'd done well enough in college and had the occasional odd job. Her performances continued to improve, and she was hoping to land a few roles in local productions.

Christine had made a few distant friends over the years, but she never allowed anyone to invade her personal life. She'd occasionally go to a movie, shopping, or to a study session at a café. The discussions were limited to school, careers, or impersonal topics like the news. If anyone tried to ask about Erik, she'd give them one warning. _I keep my married life private. _If they persisted (and most didn't), she'd cut off the friendship without a second glance backward.

She also visited with Gavin every so often. His marriage continued to have its ups and downs, and there was even a month when Gavin left home and lived with a college friend. He and Marisol had made up and stayed together after that, but Christine had the feeling that things were still a little tense between them.

She had once met with Marisol while Gavin was out of town on business. It had been Marisol's suggestion, and Christine had decided that, as long as Marisol didn't get nosey, the meeting would be harmless. They got together at the mall food court. Two-year-old Rose had climbed into Christine's lap and allowed Christine to braid her dark-brown hair. The young girl was smiling and had a stuffed panda tucked beneath one arm. Rose had declared that her daddy was "bye-bye" but "he back soon."

"I don't always understand Gavin," Marisol had said, staring at her drink. "I know he loves me. But he has the hardest time sitting still. I thought…maybe you might understand him."

"I don't see him that often now," Christine had replied. It had been true. Ever since the incident with the serial killer, she'd had limited contact with him. "I'm not sure how well I'd understand."

"There are times that I think about giving up on him," Marisol had quietly continued. "But…I can't. I know he doesn't cheat on me. He provides well. When he is home, Gavin is good to both of us; he plays with Rose all the time. It's just…he can never stay home for very long."

"He likes adventure," Christine agreed. "I don't know. I guess it depends on whether you mind him being away. But…I know he loves you both." She smiled down at Rose.

"Yeah," Marisol had replied with a laugh "Some of my friends complain that they can't get their husbands _out _of the house. Maybe it's a no-win situation, right?" Christine had smiled until Marisol spoke again. "Your husband stays home a lot, right? He works at home. How's that going?"

Christine had paused. "I'm happy with how we are."

"Doesn't it ever get on your nerves?"

"I'm happy with how we are."

Marisol had appeared momentarily stung. Maybe she'd wanted some company for her misery, but Christine _never_ complained about Erik to other people.

Oh, of course Erik had plenty of faults. While other girls whined that their husbands and boyfriends left their dirty laundry on the floor, Christine could easily add that Erik still occasionally hid his clothing from her. He had some personal rule that his pants only needed to be washed after he'd worn them three days and his shirts after two days. She'd tried to argue that his logic was silly, but Erik continued to conceal his clothes until _he_ thought they should be washed. Christine still didn't get it.

But these were personal matters. She was Erik's only defender, and she was adamant about keeping his privacy and dignity.

The conversation with Marisol had ended soon afterward. Maybe Marisol didn't get what she wanted out of the meeting, but Christine really didn't know how to help. She had stopped blaming herself for Gavin's marital problems; she'd asked Gavin to come to London one time—not to tour the whole world for the rest of his life.

* * *

After her meeting with Mr. Richardson, Christine came home to find Erik leaning over his music with his wrinkled white shirt untucked and hanging over his black pants. So long as they weren't outside, he'd learned to relax. Erik enjoyed simple things—music, his bed, the (immortal, ever-growing) goldfish, dessert…lovemaking.

He was still actively composing. People, often producers of independent films, had even started sending movie scenes for which they wanted songs or soundtracks. He viewed the clips and wrote the music, usually grumbling over some aspect of the film. Erik never liked the romances, especially if they were between younger couples.

If someone had a question for him, Erik would write a response. Then, she'd take the letter and make it a little…nicer. For example, if Erik wrote: _What kind of idiot doesn't know whether he wants a ballad or a somber staccato piece? _

She would change it to: _I can see your dilemma in choosing the appropriate song._ _Might I suggest…._

So far, there had been no incidents. He'd also written some pieces that were only meant to be performed and recorded. Erik seemed to enjoy composing those the most.

Christine still worried about his isolation. She could occasionally persuade him to come out on cloudy days and take walks down the dirt trails at the forest parks. Whenever the sun poked out from behind a cloud, though, he'd grumble and moan that someone would see him. If that didn't get her attention, he'd claim that the sun was eating his skin. And if that didn't work, he'd sit on the ground and declare that he was going to die.

Thinking of this, Christine giggled. Erik sharply looked away from his music and up at her. "What is so humorous?"

"Nothing," she stated. "How are you?"

"I am well. How was your meeting?"

"Great! Mr. Richardson is as impressed with you as ever. He thinks you're brilliant."

"Hmph."

She leaned down and kissed his forehead. His eyes told her that something was on his mind. "Anything interesting happen today?"

"No," he replied, his voice a little cold.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Are you _really_ sure?"

He paused. "De Chagny." Erik practically had to spit the words out.

She glanced up and blinked. They hadn't spoken of Raoul in ages, and she'd intended to keep it that way. "What about him?"

"He is wed."

"Really?" She kept her voice calm. "How do you know?"

"It was in the news on the computer. A…Melanie." Erik stared at her, likely awaiting her reaction.

"Wow," she murmured. "I'm glad he finally found someone."

The last time she'd heard anything about Raoul was when he'd made a statement in a major newspaper right after Leonie's death. That had been a strange moment. Oddly, Christine hadn't felt happy, satisfied, or even angry that Leonie hadn't been forced to live in prison longer. It was more of an ambivalent feeling. When Erik had seen the news, he'd only twitched and glanced at the ground. They'd gone on with their lives, not allowing the horrible woman to haunt them any longer.

Christine sat on the couch and pondered the news of Raoul's wedding. A gentle nostalgia overcame her. There were no regrets, only a realization of how quickly her life had changed over the past several years. Her time with Raoul seemed so long ago…like a different lifetime almost.

Erik was still staring at her, and she decided to change the subject before his old insecurities returned. "I've been thinking," she began. This seemed to make Erik even more nervous. "That after this semester is over, we could find a new place to live. We've talked about it before, and now seems like a good time. We're a little cramped here."

He nodded; Erik had always been eager to get out of the city.

"I'll start looking, and we'll try to move in after I graduate," she continued. "I'm not sure we're ready for a house yet; where we end up permanently settling down kind of depends on where I find work. And I'm still not crazy about the weather here. But maybe I can find something less crowded. Hm." Christine stopped rambling and glanced up with a smile. "Do you want to help me pick out our new home?"

"No. I trust my wife to find somewhere suitable."

She scoffed. "You just want me to do all the work."

From the way his mouth twitched, she could tell he was hiding a smile. "I trust my wife."

"I'm going to decorate everything in pink and yellow," she threatened. "Bright, happy pink and yellow."

"You would not do that to Erik."

She grumbled, knowing full well that Erik wouldn't come out during the daytime to look at residences with her. But Christine wanted him to know that she did want him with her. And she enjoyed the amused glint in his eye that came whenever he won an argument. He was more relaxed and content and…well….

More whole.

* * *

_He_ attended her college graduation even though it occurred during a disgustingly sunny day, remaining behind a set of wooden bleachers. A white poodle barked at him, but he hissed at it, sending the silly creature back to its owner. Although he was rather bored as the other students' names were called, his heart expanded as he watched his wife receive her diploma. Perhaps the college degree was a sign that he hadn't ruined her.

After saying goodbye to a few females, Christine found him after the ceremony and slipped her hand into his.

"You will not socialize with the others?" he enquired, unable to hide his delight at the fact that he would not have to find his own way back home. Then again, she had become a bit more reclusive over the years, spending many Friday nights and weekends watching him compose or curled up with a book.

"No. I want to go see our new home. I'm so excited; I hope you like it!" Christine tugged on his hand.

He had not accompanied her to pick out their new living quarters. It was entirely her choice, and she was the one who liked to decorate and buy furniture. Christine had been unable to find a suitable house to rent and had finally chosen a duplex, meaning they only had one irritating neighbor. Their new home contained two bedrooms and a basement. She declared that the second bedroom would be his music room. He asked for the basement instead; the second room could be hers.

"What will I do with the room?" she asked.

"You could fill it with little female trinkets. Porcelain dolls and knickknacks. Perhaps some comfy chairs and frilly pillows?" he suggested. His wife raised an eyebrow. "Or you may do as you wish with it."

They did not have too many possessions to bring with them. His violin and the computer were of high priority, along with the items that Christine had owned since her youth. He was most concerned with transporting the fish. They had survived for this long with proper care, and he was determined to ensure that they lived through this trip.

Before they left, he gave the apartment a lingering glance.

"It was our first," she said, leaning her head against his shoulder. "I'll miss it."

"Indeed." Despite having a home for several years, though, he was still a bit detached from physical locations. He was only attached to Christine and followed wherever she went without a second glance backward.

Christine placed the fish bag in his narrow lap and then drove to their new home on the outside of the city. He kept a careful eye on the orange creatures, ensuring that they were never jostled. Romeo and Juliet survived the ride; they were much more competent than their namesakes.

Upon arriving in the new neighborhood, he noticed with delight that the duplexes were spread far apart, and that there was just enough shrubbery for him to hide behind in case…oh…who knew? Like a spider, he simply liked having places to hide.

The duplex was a bit more upscale than their previous home. And much more private. He did not feel as though some idiot would suddenly pop out of the bushes and point at him. The carpeted basement was about the size of a small bedroom and fittingly dark; he would enjoy playing the violin down there. And carrying Christine down there…with some bulky pillows and champagne and….

"Do you like it?" she asked with a grin.

"It is ours," he stated. "Yes. It is fine."

"We can afford it because my husband is a brilliant composer."

"I do not earn that much," he protested. Actually, he didn't even know how much he made. He never wanted to see the checks.

"You are doing very well," she murmured. "Except…"

"What?"

She dramatically sighed. "Everyone is so curious about you…who you are. There's a woman _and _a man that are actually in love with you just because of your music."

He cringed.

"I had to resist writing back and telling them that you were _mine_," she teased.

"I am sure that after one glance at me, they would change their minds," he grimly replied.

Christine quickly brightened his mood by suggesting that there was plenty of room for a grand piano in the home. She also spoke of buying him electronic and computerized equipment for composing; he was a bit more hesitant about allowing too much of the modern world to touch his music.

They moved in during the evening and devoted their first night to celebrating the new home. Throughout his marriage, he never took physical affection for granted, even after it became a routine part of life. And he loved the other quirks of the bedroom as well. For example, when Christine became cold while sleeping, she would scoot closer to him. Of course, his skin was frigid, and she would continue to wiggle and futilely press against him in search of warmth. After being elbowed in the ribs several times, he would eventually wrap her in a blanket before she knocked them both off the bed. It was rather precious.

All in all, their time at the new residence began on a delightful note.

Of course, it was inevitable that they would eventually meet their neighbor. Or at least Christine met him; _he_ merely caught a glimpse of the man while hiding behind a bush. Justin McKenzie. Mr. McKenzie was perhaps in his mid to late thirties and vilely handsome. At least he wasn't an idiot boy. Then again, what if Christine preferred older men? There was that obvious possibility considering….

Well…hopefully she preferred older, _uglier_ men.

Christine once mentioned that Mr. McKenzie "looked kind of troubled" and "never really smiled."

"Is he wed?" _he_ enquired.

"I…he wears a ring," she said. "But I haven't ever seen his wife. I don't think she lives there."

"Mm." It annoyed him whenever other people attempted to be mysterious.

One night, as he stepped outside for a solitary evening stroll, _he_ saw Mr. McKenzie with a dark-haired female. They were slowly walking toward their front door. Mr. McKenzie's hand was placed tentatively on her upper back, and her shoulders were slightly slouched. The woman was very thin--thinner than Christine. Not as skeletal as _him_, of course, but still bordering on sickly. There was clearly a wedding ring on her finger. _He_ shrugged and left, only briefly mentioning the sighting to Christine.

The next night, the same woman (Mrs. McKenzie, he supposed) was sitting on her front porch step smoking a cigarette. Her long black hair and yellow sundress made her appear even frailer. She briefly glanced at him, but the shadows were too thick for her to obtain a good view of his cadaverous physique. Mrs. McKenzie turned back around and stared forward again, ignoring him. He ignored her as well and went for his walk.

Every time he went out after that, the damned woman was sitting on her porch. Sometimes she smoked, and sometimes she merely leaned back on her palms and stared at the street. Or she had a glass of ice tea with a lemon and was sipping it at an irritatingly slow pace. It was utterly ridiculous. He considered going out the back entrance, but their small yard was surrounded by a concrete wall. Although he would have attempted to scale it during an emergency, it was not something he wished to do every night—not over a silly female…and not when there were mud puddles on the other side. Damned woman.

On one occasion, she was standing and peeking around the corner of the duplex. Sensing him behind her, she said, "There was a dog out here. A Dalmatian. It's gone now, I guess." Her voice was soft and scratchy.

He grunted and departed.

And then several nights later: "Did your electricity go out today?"

He started to walk away without answering her, but the question seemed simple enough. "It did," he stated.

"Oh. Ours did, too." She paused, squinting up at him in the dim lighting. "You have a…really nice voice, ya know? It's weirdly nice."

"Mm." He walked away from her.

If there was anything positive about the encounters, it was that he did not feel quite as freakish around her. Of course, she usually couldn't see him in all his hideous glory, especially with the realistic mask. But it was also the fact that she seemed… damaged, somehow. For once, he didn't feel like the most dysfunctional one there.

One evening, he heard a conversation between her and her husband.

"I just want you to tell me if you need anything," said Mr. McKenzie.

"I'm fine!" she exclaimed. "Leave me alone. You're always bugging me. I'm _fine_."

"How the hell am I supposed to know if you're fine? You never say anything. You're like a ghost half the time."

"I'm thinking about things. I'm getting it all together. I don't need you treating me like I'm three."

"Fine," Mr. McKenzie muttered, his voice becoming more distant. "Do what you want."

Over the next few weeks, Christine went on a few evening walks with _him_. Of course, the woman was on her porch. Mrs. McKenzie always muttered an indiscernible greeting after Christine said, "Hello. How are you?" The woman actually seemed more eager to talk to _him_, which perhaps should have been the first sign that she was completely mad.

"I think something's wrong with Katherine," Christine had said to him in the privacy of their home. Apparently, the woman had a name. "Maybe she's sick. Justin never says anything, though."

"There is something wrong with everyone," had been his annoyed reply. "Except you."

It all came to a wretched climax about three weeks later as he was stepping out for another solo walk. Used to seeing the woman there, he ignored her and began his journey forward. One of his newest compositions was on his mind, and he was in deep concentration.

"Hi!" _He_ was vaguely aware of Mrs. McKenzie calling out to him. He turned to stare at her as she walked…no, _stumbled_ toward him. Fingers curled, he watched her in morbid fascination, wondering what in the hell she was doing. The woman was smiling, but her eyes were bizarre--distant and wild. She grabbed onto his suit jacket, laughing. "Hi there. You're so thin. Your wife…she doesn't feed ya, huh? Let's go inside, and I'll…I've got ham. It's the sugary kind of ham. Do you like it?"

He nearly twisted her wrist and hurled her away from him, but a warning bell in his mind told him not to injure her. Her body was frailer than Christine's, and he had always been aware of how easy it would be to hurt his beloved wife. And he did not want to have to flee the country because of this idiot woman.

"Release me!" he rasped, barely able to mentally grasp the situation. She was _touching _him. No one touched him but Christine! _Ever!_

"C'mon. Don't be shy." She pulled on his suit. "You and I should eat together. Everyone tells me I need to eat more…."

"I will kill you if you do not release me!" The threat had no effect on her. She continued to tug at his clothing, eyes hazy in the dim porch lights.

Arms raised, he did the only thing he could do in the situation. "_Christine! Christine!_"

"What? Erik!" Christine ran out the door, dressed in her white nightgown and a purple robe. Her eyes widened, and she rushed over to them with outstretched hands. "Oh! Stop it! Let go of him!" She gently but firmly unhooked the wretched woman's fingers from his clothing. Mrs. McKenzie stumbled several times before blankly staring at Christine.

Once free, _he_ started to run back into his house and cleanse himself. Christine's safety suddenly came to mind, and he paused in his steps. _Who knew what the insane woman would do?_ Christine led Mrs. McKenzie back into her own home. The woman continued to mutter beneath her breath as Christine helped her sit down on an expensive leather sofa. _He_ stayed to the side of a grandfather clock, observing the situation from the shadows.

Within a few moments, he heard Christine speaking on the telephone. "You need to come home," she said, obviously talking to Mr. McKenzie. "No. You need to come home now." Another pause. "She's just sitting on the couch, but I don't think she's well. What? No…you need to come home…." Christine sighed. "No. This is not my responsibility. You need to be here…What? No!"

Frustrated, _he_ walked over to his wife and grabbed the phone. "You will come home now and fix this!" he snarled into the receiver. "_Now! Or I will find you and drag you here in several pieces, you idiot!"_

There was a long pause. And then Mr. McKenzie nearly whispered, "All right. I'm coming home." The man hung up with a dull click.

Christine fetched the woman a drink of water and helped her recline on the sofa. _He_ stayed to the side with his arms folded, impatiently waiting for Mr. McKenzie to return and handle his own damned life.

"Your husband is funny," said Mrs. McKenzie to Christine, still staring into space. "Like a…giant…black… _bat_." The woman softly giggled. "Batman." Her smile faded. "But he's kinda majestic, isn't he? You should feed him more."

_He _scoffed.

Christine didn't reply, only rubbing her temples and attempting to keep the woman calm. As soon as Mr. McKenzie returned twenty minutes later, _he_ darted out the back door. Keeping an ear to the glass, he listened to ensure that Christine was safe.

_His_ beloved wife came out soon afterward with circles around her eyes, frowning and shaking her head. They walked home together, and, after closing the door, Christine instantly embraced him and kept her face buried in his shirt for nearly a minute. Noticing her shaking shoulders, he realized that she was laughing. "What?" he asked.

"It's just…her…grabbing onto you like that…I wasn't sure whether to be jealous or…." Christine continued to giggle, and he harrumphed. "But you were great."

"That was horrid," was all he could say. "Was she drunk or mad?"

"Both, I think," Christine whispered. "I think she was in some sort of crisis center. Or maybe a mental hospital…or rehab? I don't know. Her husband isn't specific about it." She sighed. "Do you want to find somewhere else to live?"

He considered this. "No. Not until we buy some home far away from everyone else. Otherwise, we will run into other problems. Loud children. Vile teenage boys. Nosey morons who want to see my face. At least these individuals will not dare enquire about us. They have their own set of closet skeletons, no?"

"Good point," she murmured, kissing his cheek. "We'll stay, then."

They climbed into bed together and lay there quietly. Every so often, there was faint shouting on the other side of the wall.

"Erik?"

"Mm?"

"This place allows pets."

"Yes," he agreed. "The fish were permitted to stay."

"Yeah." She shifted. "Um…Erik?"

"Yes?"

"Can we get a cat?" Her eyes were slowly lighting up.

"It will try to get into our bed and take you."

"I won't let it," she promised. "Our bedroom will be off limits."

"It will eat our fish."

"I won't let it do that. We'll keep the fish safe."

Her eyes looked so hopeful that it was difficult to resist her. And he knew that she'd wanted a feline for some time now. "I am putting the fish tank in the basement," he stated. "The cat cannot go down there."

She smiled. "Okay! So we can get one?" He made a noise. "Thank you!" She started to kiss him.

"But you will still check upon the fish?" He disliked the idea of her abandoning them.

Christine drew back and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I will _never_ forget the fish. I'll check on them every day."

He trusted her words and leaned back to continue their affections.

By the next day, Christine saw Mrs. McKenzie leave her house with a suitcase and enter an awaiting car. Mr. McKenzie merely stated that she had gone to stay with her mother for a few months. Christine said that he appeared depressed and tired.

_He_ wasn't quite sure what to make of any of it; human interaction was still bizarre to him.

After that week, though, he felt particularly…sane.

And whenever _he_ had any accidental encounters with Mr. McKenzie, Mr. McKenzie was always the first one to break eye contact and quickly walk away.


	18. Chapter 18

Hey, everyone! Sorry for the delay again. My job keeps me a little busy. Plus, I'm a bit of a political news junky, and the election had been distracting me from other things. All I can say is that last Tuesday was completely amazing.

This chapter deals with a slightly touchy subject among phans, and I hope that I handled it in a satisfying way. Thank you all for continuing to read. Thanks to _MadLizzy _for editing.

**Read and Review!!!**

"Aren't you just the cutest, fuzziest thing ever? Yes, you are. Yes, you are." Christine held the white Persian kitten up in the air with both hands and grinned. The creature pawed at her and wriggled its legs.

"Hmph."

"Do you want to hold her?" She looked at _him._

"No." He turned away with his arms crossed. At least it was a female feline.

"Aw. But Erik! Look at those eyes. How can you resist her?"

"Easily." He stiffly sat on the couch and picked up his pen and paper, ignoring them both. From the corner of his eye, he saw Christine place the creature on the floor. She walked to the couch and took a hard seat next to him, bouncing them both.

"Are you upset about Cordie?" she asked. She'd wanted to carry on the Shakespearean tradition and named the cat Cordelia. As the cat liked to play with electrical cords…well…. "Are you mad, Erik?"

"No. I said that you may have the cat. I did not say I would care for it." Perhaps he was being a bit harsh. It was simply…difficult sharing her affections again. The fish ignored her; the kitten tended to follow her around the house.

"Oh." She sat there for awhile, watching him work.

After a few moments, he turned and kissed her forehead, not really wishing to upset her. She smiled and turned to pick up the kitten, keeping it on the other side of her. Firmly sandwiched between _him_ and the feline, Christine appeared quite content.

As promised, the cat did not sleep in their bedroom or encroach on the fishes' territory. Christine fed and played with the creature. He ignored it—or at least attempted to do so whenever it crawled into his lap or attacked his pants leg. Sometimes he tried hissing at the kitten, but that seemed to excite it even more. If all else failed, he would call Christine. She would giggle while picking up the feline and carrying it away.

Of course, it all became a bit complicated whenever Christine had to leave for tryouts and rehearsals, usually in the city. She obtained several medium-sized roles in productions, all of which showcased her voice. Her focus was still on the opera, but first she needed to thicken her resume. It was all coming together a bit slower than he preferred, but perhaps it was better that way.

It was always a bit difficult for him to adapt to fast changes.

Anyhow, when Christine left during the day, she placed the kitten in a large kennel. Occasionally, it mewled or scratched against the plastic sides. _He _ignored it. Sometimes he went into the basement to escape the noise. "It will not get to us now," he informed the fish. He was certain that Juliet nodded her head in appreciation.

His attitude toward the kitten changed one wretched Wednesday. Christine had gone into the city for a rehearsal. Rain was hammering against the roof, and the streets were beginning to flood. Lightning flashed as thunder shook the house. He paced back and forth, waiting for his wife to come home. The cat's cries were also beginning to grow louder.

Finally, the phone finally rang, and he leaped forward and answered it. "Yes?"

"Erik?"

"Christine. Where are you?"

"I'm still in the city," she said, her voice hesitant. "The weather is horrible, and it's not supposed to get any better until after midnight. I think…I think it would be safer for me to rent a room here. Only for the night. Is that okay?"

Okay?

_Okay?_

Of course it was not _okay_! He had not spent a night without her since London. She was his sanity at night and his relief in the morning. She kept the _things_ from creeping into his mind.

"You cannot come home?" he asked, his voice weaker than he preferred.

"I could try. But it's…there's flooding, and traffic is supposed to be backed up for miles. If I started driving now, I still might not get home for hours."

If he ordered Christine to come home and something horrible happened to her, well…that would be the end of everything. A stone lodged itself somewhere between his heart and stomach. "You…should remain there until it is safe," he said.

"That's what I think," she agreed. Thunder roared again over his head. "I'll be home early in the morning. I promise."

"Yes."

"And…could you check on Cordie? Maybe let her out for a little while and give her some water. Please?"

"Fine," he grunted. This was growing viler by the moment.

"I love you," she said. "I'll call you after I get a room, and I'll get home tomorrow as soon as I can."

"I know," he replied. "Stay safe. I love you."

He hung up and stared at the floor. The clock said that it was barely after eight. Well, he certainly would not sleep that night. He fell onto the couch as the rain continued to clatter against the windows, wishing it were possible to strangle the weather.

The cat continued to rattle against the kennel, and he finally stood and released the creature. It followed him to the couch and stood on its hind legs, staring up at him with green eyes. "Why must you bother Erik?" he asked it. "Erik is a frightening, ugly man. And you are a white ball of hair that females squeal over. We have nothing in common." The kitten attempted to climb up the couch before tumbling back onto the carpet. "Idiot creature."

After watching it struggle for a few more moments, he lifted the kitten and placed it on the couch. It curled up beside his thigh and yawned. Within twenty minutes, Christine called again and gave him the number to her room. They briefly chatted, but she continuously yawned with exhaustion. Eventually, he ordered her to go to bed.

Once their conversation was over, he stood and went into the bedroom. Plucking Christine's pillow from the bed, he took it back into the living area and sat on the sofa. The cat was waiting for him, ears perked upwards. After he retook his seat, it settled down again.

For the rest of the evening and night, he kept his face near her pillow. Her sweet scent kept some of the bad things out of his mind. The cat occasionally nuzzled his hand and fingers. He did not pet it, but he did not push it away.

_He_ was not insane; he knew where he was…what was occurring…that she would be back. Still, like a passenger on a turbulent flight, he sat in a haze of panic. By the end of the night, he was firmly hugging the pillow with one arm, staring forward and holding his breath. The kitten was sleeping on top of his other arm.

Christine came home, of course. He was aware of her entering fairly early in the morning but could not seem to move. She walked into the room and immediately saw him positioned between the cat and her pillow. Her eyes widened, and she drew in her breath. "Erik? Are you okay?"

"I…am," he managed to say. "Merely resting."

The kitten stood and stretched, presenting itself to her in the obvious hopes that she would pet it. Christine kissed _his _jaw and took a seat beside him before scooping up the kitten with both hands. "I'm sorry I couldn't come home."

"I know."

"I missed you," she stated. Christine tugged on the corner of her pillow with a half-smile. "Did you miss me?"

The noise at the back of his throat was meant to be an affirmation. Within a split second, he had grabbed his wife with both arms in a demanding embrace.

"Oomph," she grunted before hugging him as well. "I'll take that as a 'yes.'" He refused to release her for an entire two hours.

With the help of a cat, a pillow, and perhaps the healing of some wounds over the last several years—he was able to keep a good grip on his sanity. He had been…_okay_. Nothing and no one was broken.

Could he have done it for days or weeks?

Mankind did not want an answer to that question.

* * *

Christine had always planned on asking Erik to accompany her if she started travelling. But she'd also wondered if he would sometimes prefer to stay home. Maybe he'd get sick of suitcases, long car rides, and hotel rooms.

It was obvious now that he would always go with her, especially since Erik had started checking the weather report every time she was about to go into the city. She also knew that Erik's behavior didn't stem from jealousy. He just didn't do very well when he was forced to be alone for long periods of time—even more so at night. Maybe it brought back bad memories.

Anyway, it didn't matter. They'd have fun in the hotel room, ordering room service and enjoying the different cities at night. Of course, they might have to bring Cordie sometimes….

These were her happy thoughts as she stepped out onto her front porch with a broom, ready to sweep away some of the dirt and leaves that the storm had left behind. She hummed to herself, now thinking over her auditions and wondering whether she could have done better. Christine glanced up as she heard a door squeak open. Justin McKenzie stepped outside with a pack of cigarettes in his hand. Seeing her, he blinked and looked like he was about to step backwards. They hadn't talked often since his wife had left. He and Erik seemed to be battling for the title of "Most Reclusive Neighbor."

"Hi," she said.

"Hey." After a second, he stepped forward again and walked several feet away from her. Justin lit a cigarette and stared at the street, his black hair fluttering slightly in the breeze. He reminded her a little of the handsome movie stars from the fifties and sixties. "Sorry," he said, noticing her watching him. "Bad habit I can't seem to kick."

"It's fine," she replied, quickly looking away.

"Warm out today."

"Yeah. It's nice." She started to sweep again.

"Look," he began, sharply enough to make her glance up. "I want to apologize again for my wife's behavior. And for mine. It was irresponsible of me to leave her alone. And to expect you to take care of it. I was being a jerk."

"It's okay," she softly replied. "I know it was hard. I'm sorry for your troubles."

"Thanks." He shook his head. "She's better now than she was."

"That's good."

"Yep." Justin didn't say anything else, continuing to smoke with the cigarette poised between his second and middle finger.

Christine finished sweeping and went inside the house, not really knowing what _that_ was all about. Her attention was immediately taken away by Erik and Cordie--who appeared to be taking turns stalking each other around the living room. Christine removed the breakable objects from the nearby tables and then sat down to watch the game.

"Ha!" Erik cried in triumph as he jumped out from behind a corner and startled the kitten. With a cry, Cordie whirled around in a circle and took off running for Christine.

"My poor baby," she cooed, picking up the cat and setting her on the couch. "Erik is so mean to you, isn't he?"

"Erik won!" he exclaimed before dashing down to the basement to…hopefully do something wholesome and legal.

Christine felt her heart warm with love for her small family.

Her next conversation with Justin came while she was retrieving the mail. Justin was holding a can of oil and tinkering with the engine of his silver sports car.

"Windy out today," he said.

"Yeah," she agreed, trying to keep her hair from blowing into her mouth. "It's terrible." One of the envelopes dropped out of her hands and started to blow down the sidewalk. "Oh!" Christine chased after it, blinking as dust hit her in the eyes.

Justin reached down and grabbed it as it blew past his feet. Instead of handing the envelope back to her, he glanced down at the front. "Publishing company, huh? Nice. You or Erik?" He held it out to her.

"Um. Erik. He writes music."

"Great. Yeah. I can hear you guys over there sometimes."

She nervously laughed. "Sorry. We'll try to keep it down."

"Don't. It sounds good. Better than most of the crap on the radio."

"Heh. Thanks." Feeling a little uncomfortable, she started to turn around and head inside.

"Christine."

She wearily turned to face him again. "Yeah?" Justin started to walk toward her but paused several feet away. His expression was intense but non-threatening.

"Look," he began, his voice barely above a whisper. "I get that there are some…issues in your house. I get it because _I'm _there right now. Staying inside most of the time. Not talking to the neighbors…."

Christine flinched as a few warning bells rang in her mind. "We're fine."

"Maybe so. But it could be better, right?"

She looked Justin in the eye, unsure of whether he was trying to flirt with her…or being a nosey jerk…or seriously trying to empathize. "I won't say that we don't have our challenges like anyone else," she stated, her tone becoming icy. "But we're perfectly happy."

"I can see what's going on with Erik," he continued.

"He's _fine_."

"Like with Katherine--"

"Erik is not like your wife!" she snapped.

Justin blinked and leaned back. "I didn't say he was like my wife. What? No. I was going to say that, with Katherine, it's easier to hide sometimes because it's all psychological stuff."

"Huh?"

"But your problems are more physical. I mean, with his appearance. I can tell that he wears a mask. And his skin color is a little strange."

Christine glared. "That is rude and horrible and --"

"No!" Justin rubbed a hand over his face. "Let me say this before I put my foot in my mouth again, okay? My brother is a plastic surgeon. A good one. He's worked on burn victims and mutilated soldiers and all that. I was wondering if you wanted some help. With Katherine—I didn't know what the hell to do. Until one my friends at work recommended this mental health center."

"Center?" Christine was beginning to feel a little dizzy. No one had ever been this…blunt before.

"Yeah. It's helped her get through her addictions…depression. She has episodes; I won't say it's perfect. Obviously not." He made a sound between a grunt and a laugh. "But we're making progress. Without that center—expensive as it was, she'd be dead by now."

"Oh. I'm glad she got help."

"Right. It's good to have help. We had the center plus some help from family. You got other family?"

"No," Christine hesitantly admitted.

"That's a shame. Anyway, I wanted to offer you some help. I don't know what you've been through…what you're going through now. After watching you two over the past couple of months, I decided I might as well offer a hand."

"I don't want…."

"Please just think about it, Christine. Take Harold's info." He took a white card out of his pants pocket and handed it to her. The name of a plastic surgeon, Dr. Harold McKenzie, was printed on the front with contact information. "You helped me that night. You've been decent neighbors…not calling the police after what happened with Kathy. I thought I'd pass this along as thanks. If you decide you want nothing to do with it, then fine. That's your choice."

"Um…that's…fine. Thanks," she murmured, letting her hand and the card drop to her side. "Have a…nice evening." In a daze, she turned around without waiting for a response and walked back inside. After staring down at it for another moment, Christine started to crumple the card in her hand with the intention of tossing it in the trash. She paused, her brow furrowing as her thoughts jumped around.

Was Justin really trying to be helpful? Did it make him feel better about himself? Should she throw the card away? She didn't want it…. But would Erik be angry if she never told him about it?

Should she say something? Should she leave the card for him to find? What was the _right _thing to do?

Faced with the painful dilemma, Christine sat on the edge of the bed. Her stomach swirled with anxiety; this was the last thing in the world that she wanted to face.

_Face._ Erik's face. Why did it even have to matter to anyone?

Before she could make a decision, Erik climbed out of the basement and came into the room. She looked up and gave him a tired smile, the card poking out from between her fingers. Maybe she'd wanted him to simply find her there.

"What is wrong?" he asked, studying her closely. "What are you holding?" If there was anything she'd learned over the years, it was not to play games with Erik.

"Oh…Justin gave it to me," she said, handing the card to him with a lump in her throat. "I was about to throw it away. I really wanted to. But I didn't know…I didn't know if you would get mad at me…."

His shoulders were tense as he read the surgeon's information on the card. She stood and touched his arm, already feeling guilty for showing it to him. "You can throw it away," she firmly stated. "Let's forget about it and go to bed. Justin thinks he was trying to help. But I think he wants to feel high and mighty or something. He's kind of that way." She stopped talking, awaiting his reaction. Hopefully, Justin wouldn't die.

"You discussed my face with _him_?" Erik rasped.

"No! He just knew somehow. I didn't tell him anything! I promise! He came up to me."

Erik stared at her, and she was relieved by the trust in his eyes. If nothing else, he believed her. He placed the crumpled card on the dresser and climbed into bed, staring at the ceiling with an unreadable expression. Stomach knotted with anxiety, she got into bed and twisted the covers in her hands. Finally, she rolled over and wrapped an arm around his waist. "Forget about it," she said. "I should have thrown the stupid thing away."

He didn't say anything. At least not until four hours later--past midnight--when Erik woke her by asking, "Do you want it?"

Christine slowly opened her eyes, a foggy dream still in her mind. She squinted. "Do I want what?"

"You deserve it. Hell, of course you do. You deserve it more than anything. It would be perfect for you."

She rubbed her eyes and turned on the light. "Erik, what are you talking about?"

"You deserve a better face."

"Wha--? Oh. _Oh!_ Oh, Erik! No, no, no! Not for me. That was _never_ for me! You have to understand that. I'll _die_ if you don't understand that. I thought if I threw it away without telling you…someday, you might be mad at me. It was such a shock…."

"What do you want?" he asked.

"I want whatever you want!" she exclaimed. "I want what you think will make you happy."

"I am happy. What do you want? Whatever you want."

"This can't be my decision," she desperately stated, nearing tears. _Damn Justin._ "I want you to do what will make you happy."

Erik rolled onto his back. "I do not know."

It was one of the rare times that he sounded uncertain about something; usually Erik had very defined opinions. She scooted closer to him. "You don't have to know now," she said. "We're fine." She pressed her lips against his cheek. "We're doing so well…so right."

"I do not want anyone to touch me except you," he stated, his hands shaking. "Only you."

She held him tighter. "That's fine. No one has to."

"But it might be better…." he whispered. "Worth it."

"It might not be."

"It could be."

"There's no way to know," she murmured.

"Yes, there is."

"How?" she asked, sitting up.

Erik hesitated. "Perhaps the man could know what it would entail by…a brief observation."

"The doctor would know by looking at you, you mean? I…maybe." She was shocked that Erik would even allow it.

"Yes," Erik whispered. "Merely to know…."

"Yes. We could try that. But _only_ if you want to."

"Yes."

He said nothing else after that. She latched onto him for the entire night, kept awake by fright and confusion. Erik didn't let go of his request in the morning, though, and Christine decided that maybe it would be best to at least know all the options. She briefly spoke to Justin, asking him the easiest way to contact his brother and making it clear that Harold would have to come to the duplexes. Christine had to make an effort not to sound bitter.

Justin gave her a brief smile and said, "I'll have him out here in a week. He's a good guy, even involved in a non-profit that travels around to some of the poorest countries."

That gave Christine some reassurance. Still, her nerves were shot over the next few days. Erik didn't say much either. Several times, she asked him if he was still okay with going through the interview. He firmly said that he wanted it, and so…that was that….

On the designated day, Harold knocked at their door three minutes early. He was a tall, lean man in his forties with thinning blond hair and glasses. His blue eyes were somewhat calming, and he seemed less edgy than his brother. Harold gave her a kind smile when she answered the door. "Good afternoon," he said. "I'm Harold McKenzie."

"Hi," she replied, her voice a little shrill. "I'm Christine. Um. Come on in. Thank you." Wringing her hands, she led him into the living room—where Erik was sitting on the couch with Cordie. Erik glared but remained seated, the realistic mask still covering his face.

"It's nice to meet you both," Harold said with a nod and a smile. He seemed to sense that he was only half-welcome. Unlike most people, he was doing a decent job of not staring at Erik. "I know this is all a little strange. But Justin asked this of me as a special request, and—as he'll tell you—I've always had a hard time refusing my little bro."

"Thank you," said Christine, letting out a little nervous laugh. "We're not making any decisions. We're…." She spoke the truth. "Erik wanted an assessment."

"That's understandable," he replied. "It's a big decision. I'll give you my best opinion." Harold sat down in the armchair, and Christine took a seat next to Erik, taking his hand into hers.

"Can I get you anything to drink?" she asked, starting to stand again. She was probably being a terrible host. Because they didn't have many visitors, she was a little out of practice.

"No, thank you. I'm good," he replied, adjusting his glasses. They sat there in an uncomfortable silence until Harold spoke again. "Well…I think the best way to begin is for me to take a look. That is a fine mask you have there, though. Very well-crafted."

Erik stared at him for several long seconds. Christine wondered if he was going to change his mind—and if she would need to quickly rush the doctor out of there. But Erik's fingers slowly rose to the edges of the mask. After another second, he began to untie it. Christine held her breath, her heart pounding as her hands clenched into balls. Erik removed the painted plaster. Harold paled for a moment. He was able to quickly gather himself together, though, leaning forward as his eyes narrowed with…interest?

There was a terrible silence in which the two men stared at each other. Harold started to stand up and lifted a hand. "Can I touch—"

"No," rasped Erik, leaning backward and preparing to defend himself.

Harold nodded and quickly sat back down. "All right then. Could you press your fingers against your right cheek for me? Please."

Sneering, Erik did so. Christine kept watch of his eyes, checking for any sign that his mental stability was in jeopardy. So far, he seemed stable—though irritated. Harold continued to ask him to touch his face in various places; Erik reluctantly complied.

"It's very difficult without X-rays," Harold stated after a moment. "The skin tissue has abnormalities, if you will. Even the pigment is off. I can't tell whether the problems extend to the muscles and bones. If I had to guess, I'd say yes. As with the nasal area, there wasn't complete formation. I don't know why…."

"Chemicals," Christine softly interrupted. "Toxic pollutants…."

Harold sharply glanced at her, as though he'd forgotten she was there. "Yes. That might explain it, then." He rubbed his chin, studying Erik's face with a mixture of sympathy and fascination. "There is work we could do. The most—I guess you could say—radical is the face transplant. But it's so risky that I would only recommend it to the most desperate. You'd be on immunosuppressive drugs for the rest of your life, and the health consequences can be deadly." Christine's heart skipped a beat. "The safest options are prosthetics, but I'm not sure how much they would help with the extent of the disfigurement. In between, there's a variety of surgeries. But I'd need X-rays to give you more details."

"Thank you," Christine whispered, releasing a breath.

"I'm happy to help," he replied. "Call me if you'd like to know more…if you want a complete examination. I may even be able to find you a technician with a portable X-ray machine that could be brought to your home. And then we'd move on from that."

"All right," she replied. Erik still said nothing.

"Do you have any specific questions?" he asked, looking between them.

"No," she murmured.

Actually, she did.

Within a few tense moments, Harold was prepared to leave. Christine followed him outside and toward Justin's condo, arms folded against her chest. He expectantly looked at her, maybe knowing there would be more she'd want to say away from Erik. "How long would it all take?" she asked. "And how painful for him?"

"Like I said, I can't give you a good opinion without more information. It all depends on so many factors. How deep is the disfigurement? Is his body strong enough to handle the surgery and anesthesia? And plus, how would he handle the psychological therapy?"

"Psychological?"

"A lot of the surgeries I've done are for people who were disfigured during the course of their lives. So they're desperate to get back to being—for lack of a better word—normal. In Erik's case, he's lived over forty years with this face. It'd be a shock for him _not_ to have it. A trauma almost. Does that make any sense, or am I rambling?"

"No. It makes sense," she murmured. Tears brimmed at the corners of her eyes. She trusted this man more than she'd trusted anyone in awhile. Maybe it was the fact that he, a distinguished doctor, drove an old Ford instead of a sports car and wore jeans instead of an expensive suit. Or maybe his eyes were simply kind. "Is it worth it?" she weakly asked. "Not for me. For him."

"I know you're sick of hearing this answer, but…it all depends. There are financial matters—sometimes you can get help for that. It depends on how well a person gets through the surgeries, both physically and mentally. On whether you're able to handle the stress. The last thing you want is to sit alone at home while he's in the hospital."

"Oh." That did it; she started to cry.

Harold placed a hand on her shoulder. "It is for him, but you do have to consider yourself. Consider you both. Sleep on it. Call me if you have any questions."

Embarrassed, Christine wiped her tears away and nodded. "All right. Thank you…so much."

"You're very welcome." He waited a moment to make sure that she was okay and then left. Christine took a deep breath and turned around to go back inside. She wasn't sure what to think…what to say. So she just hugged her husband once she was inside, hoping that Erik was reasonable enough to make this decision for them both.

"What do you want, Christine?" he asked.

The question made her flinch backwards. "I want you to do what will make you happy."

"No. What do _you_ want?"

"I want what you want."

Gracelessly, Erik fell back onto the couch and stared at the floor. "You know, my wife, I enjoyed very much to pretend that you were fine through it all…that marrying me was as simple a decision as marrying any man…that you had to give up nothing."

"But I didn't--" she started to protest.

"No. You did. Perhaps you did not mind. But you did; you did so much. You stayed all this time, Christine. You _stayed_. I wish for you to decide."

"But what if I make the wrong decision for you?" she choked out. Tears started falling down her cheeks again; the living room was going to be flooded by the time she stopped crying.

"You cannot. So long as you stay, it does not really matter. I think that, either way, there will only be you."

"I'm not so great," she murmured, feeling guilty for what she was going to say if he asked her that horrible question one more time….

And he did. "What do you want, Christine? What? Tell me, and it is yours."

So she answered. "I think it'd be torture waiting while you go through surgery after surgery. I don't know how well you would hold together after everything you've been through…with the anesthesia…. I don't know. Maybe it'd be fine. But I'd worry every time. I'd worry that you're in pain…that some stupid surgeon would mess up and make life harder for you." She took a deep breath. "But if you think it'd make you happier…if you'd end up regretting not doing it…I…."

Christine thought that she saw the vaguest relief in those two lovely golden eyes. "_No_," he nearly whispered_._ "I do not really wish to be poked and prodded…_touched_ on an operating table. I could not protect you or myself. I would wind up being the prized science project of a group of halfwits right out of medical school." He paused, and she put a hand on his shoulder. "If I were younger and alone with nothing to lose…waiting to die…perhaps then I would let them stick their knives into my face. But I think that I am…who I will be now. If I went through with it, you would simply have a reclusive husband with a better face."

"No," she murmured. "Just a different face."

"Do not humor me, Christine."

She tightly hugged him. "I'm not. It's _your_ face."

"My ugly face."

"It's mine, too," she stated. "My face." They sat on the couch in an embrace. She was originally going to suggest that, if he wanted a fancy prosthetic, it might be a good compromise. But it didn't seem important now. "I have to go to New York next week," she murmured into his ear. "And stay a couple nights there."

"I will go as well." It was not a suggestion.

"You will. And maybe Cordie, too."

The day peacefully passed by with the decision made; she never regretted their choice.

Erik came close to regretting it on only one occasion-- when Raoul came to visit two years later with his wife and one-year-old blond-haired, blue-eyed son.


	19. Chapter 19

Hi, everyone! I hope you're all enjoying the holidays. This chapter is a bit darker than some of the others, but that's just the way it turned out. I hope you all continue to enjoy E/C's journey, though.

Thanks to everyone who is reading. Thanks to _MadLizzy_ for editing.

**Read and Review!!!**

It was a little surreal when she first obtained a job as an apprentice singer in an opera company. Granted, she was only given minor roles and a low salary, but the event was still special. Erik wasn't surprised after she told him. He only said, "It is about damned time."

Erik always accompanied her when she performed in the city. Financially, they were doing well with his music—not rich by any means, but she and Erik never desired too many material possessions. They did spend a small amount on travel, choosing medium-priced hotel rooms and taking cabs to their destinations.

As she rested in the plush hotel bed with him after one of her performances, she decided that these days were so much better spent like this rather than in hospitals, shrouded in pain and worry. What would it have been like, standing over an unconscious Erik with bandages on his face and tubes sticking out of his arms while cold machines hummed around him? She preferred him strong and alive beside her.

Christine rolled over and smiled, feeling jubilant and playful. "I sang for you," she stated.

"Only for me," he agreed.

"Did I do well tonight?"

"Angels wept," he replied.

"That bad?" she joked.

"Wretched girl." At that moment, Cordie jumped on the bed and strolled between them. She was nearly full grown into a white fluffy ball—with an ego to match her size. They always attempted to find hotels that allowed pets. "Christine is mine," Erik informed the cat. "She may pet you, but she is not yours." Christine snorted, watching as the cat defiantly rubbed against her arm. Erik glared. "Someday the feline will be taught a lesson."

Christine knew he wasn't serious. Erik had taken a liking to the cat; they seemed to enjoy teasing each other in a half-hearted battle for household dominance.

All in all, that year was a joyful one, and everything seemed to fall into place.

It was over the next few years that several more trials sprang up. The first two were smaller ordeals, and she was proud of Erik for getting through them with a clear mind. The last battle—well, it was not so easy. Many tears were shed, and many angry words were exchanged.

The first tribulation came one sunny Saturday morning. As she was making pancakes, Christine heard a soft cry come from the basement. She instantly recognized the voice as Erik's, despite the fact that she'd never heard him make a similar noise. It was a beautiful, mournful sound—almost like the howl of a wolf. After dropping the pan and turning off the stove, she rushed down to the middle of the stairs. "Erik?"

He didn't reply, and her stomach clenched.

"Erik?" she began again, taking several more steps. "This had better not be a trick to get me down here." He'd called her down a few times for his own enjoyment. Not that she minded being seduced to the basement. But it was seven in the morning, and she had cooking grease splattered on her extra large t-shirt. It wasn't exactly the most sensual of scenarios. "Erik?"

He was standing in front of the glowing fish tank, silently staring down at it with hunched shoulders. Her heart fell as she instantly knew what had happened. One of the fishes had passed away during the night. "Oh, Erik," she murmured. Christine sighed and came to stand beside him so that their shoulders touched. "Which one?" She was often unable tell them apart, but Erik always could.

"Juliet," he murmured.

"Oh." She took his hand. "Well…I guess it was that time."

"She could have lived longer," he murmured. "Perhaps the tank was not cleaned often enough. Or perhaps their food was of an inferior quality."

"No, no," she protested. "I think those fish probably had a better life than most. They were very lucky. My dad bought me some when I was five, and I'm not sure they even lasted half a year."

"Mm."

Christine attempted to comfort him, but Erik still didn't say much for an entire week. He played his music and sat around the house, staring at the walls and floor. It was not lost on Christine that her husband, who had killed more people than she ever wanted to count, was mourning the death of a goldfish. Knowing that his heart was that big, she briefly wondered what Erik would have been like if the world had been kinder to him all those years ago.

After he'd recovered, eating and regularly speaking to her again, she decided to help heal his wound. "Would you like new fish?" she asked him one evening. "We could have a whole aquarium, if you want."

"No," he replied. "They will only die, too. We need something that will not die." He paused for a long moment, appearing very thoughtful. "Perhaps…."

Her heart jumped as she wondered what was on his mind. She knew of…_something _they could _have _that (god-willing) wouldn't die before they did. Although there was still plenty of time, with every passing year, they came closer to that final decision. And she wondered if Erik was thinking about it…about a baby….

Of course, her thoughts were entirely too optimistic.

"Perhaps a parrot," Erik continued. "They live very long."

She frowned but managed to hide her disappointment. "I'm not sure if I'd like a parrot."

"Indeed. Yes. It might be irritating." He shrugged. "Well…perhaps nothing for now. We will keep the feline. And Romeo does not seem devastated by the passing of his companion; perhaps he will live a bit longer."

"Perhaps," she replied with a smile. His endearing attitude toward their pets quashed her negative feelings. And they did have a lot of time. Anyway, she wanted to focus on her career.

With Erik's guidance and hours of hard work, she was able to get a permanent position within the company. She mainly took the supporting roles. A few articles about her popped up in the newspapers, tying her to the past events with _Falcon_, but no one seemed to pay too much attention. Thankfully, that was all old news.

This was what they had worked for--the happiness…the calm contentment in Erik's eyes as they went through their daily routines…the stability of (fairly) normal life mixed with the excitement that musical careers can bring.

It was still difficult to get Erik out of the house unless Christine was performing or if she mentioned that she would be gone for the night. And she was getting used to the knowing glances of people when she mentioned that her husband wouldn't be accompanying her to a dinner or social gathering. Christine could read what they were thinking: _The poor girl's husband must neglect her. Is he one of those workaholics? Is he cheating on her? Do they even live together? _

Oh well. She knew the truth. She was loved.

The second trial occurred about a year later, and it was a bit more startling than the death of the fish. Just when the past seemed far behind them, it decided to creep up on them again.

After a performance, she had finished changing and was digging for her keys in her purse. Erik was waiting outside as he usually did for her, avoiding the larger crowds. They would go back to their room and enjoy a little celebratory champagne and cheesecake. This had been one of her larger performance roles.

The dressing room was warm, and she paused to wipe away the light coat of perspiration on her forehead. She could hear murmurs and the soft clicks of shoes against the tiles as people walked around outside. "Stupid keys," Christine muttered as she walked into the hallway and toward a pair of double doors, making a mental note to clean out her purse. Erik referred to it as the "bottomless pit."

"Christine."

She blinked and stopped in front of the exit. The masculine voice was extremely familiar, but it still took her a second to place a face to it. Her eyes widened, and she whirled around. "Raoul!"

"Hi there." He chuckled at her expression and took a few cautious steps toward her. His features were broader and less boyish. There was more confidence in his step, but his eyes held slight wariness, as though he knew this meeting could go one of many ways. "How are you?"

"I'm good--wonderful! Oh my gosh! What are you doing here? I haven't seen you in ages!"

"I had business up here and took my family along; we decided to also do some sightseeing. I saw your name in a brochure. Melanie even recognized it." He cleared his throat. "She…told me I should come see you perform. I'm glad I did; you were spectacular."

"Oh. Thank you." Christine was so surprised that it was difficult to find words. "I'm glad you enjoyed it."

"I hope it doesn't feel like I'm intruding, but I wanted to say, 'Hi.'"

"No. Not at all. It's good to see you." She smiled. "It's just been such a long time."

"Yeah. The years have flown by, huh?"

"Yeah." Christine took a step toward him. They leaned forward and briefly hugged, and the combined scent of his shampoo and cologne brought back memories. Stepping back, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and glanced behind him. "Where is Melanie?"

"Outside with Caleb. My son."

Her eyes widened. "You have a son? How old is he?"

"He's one and a half." Raoul laughed and turned a little red. "We're actually expecting another in about eight months. Happened a little fast but…we're happy."

"Oh! That's wonderful."

"Yeah. He's a great kid. I can't wait till I can get him outside with a baseball glove."

"Wow," she murmured.

Raoul hesitated, and it seemed to take some effort for him to ask the next question. "Where is…your…husband?"

She laughed; some things never changed. "Erik is outside. We usually meet after my performances. It's our little routine"

"Heh. I see. Do you have a family, or…?"

"I have Erik, a cat, and one fish."

"Well, that sounds nice. Yeah. We have two Labradors."

"Great! Animals are…great."

"Yeah. They are." Raoul scratched the back of his head. "So would you like to go outside? I can introduce you to my family. Maybe we can all have dinner. Or is that not a good idea?"

She didn't know if it was a _good_ idea. God only knew what Erik's reaction would be. But Raoul was here now, and it seemed a shame not to visit with him for a little while, especially because they'd never said goodbye all those years ago. "Sure! Let's go. I want to see your son."

They exited together, and she watched as Raoul walked toward a pretty brunette woman with a stroller. In the stroller was a bright-eyed, blond toddler dressed in jean overalls. Christine waved, still feeling a bit disoriented. Melanie waved back, and Caleb stared up at her. Raoul introduced them, and there was a slightly awkward exchange of greetings.

"Hi there," Christine said with a grin, kneeling down to Caleb's level. "You look just like your daddy, you know? Look at those blue eyes." Caleb giggled and tried to grab her hair.

"He's got Melanie's mouth," said Raoul, a hint of pride in his voice.

"Which will probably mean braces," added Melanie with a playful roll of her eyes.

"He's adorable," Christine replied, standing up again.

"Thank you," said Melanie, her expression more curious than hostile.

Christine suddenly sensed Erik on her far left, standing in his familiar shadow patch. Of course, he didn't look happy, eyeing the entire scene as one would stare at a rotting carcass. Adjusting her purse, she swallowed and took a step in his direction. "Excuse me for a moment."

"Sure," Raoul replied behind her. She knew he was also looking in Erik's direction.

Christine walked up to her husband and kissed him firmly on the jaw. "You know I had no idea."

"I did," Erik declared. "I saw the boy enter. But there was no way to warn you." Thankfully, he sounded more annoyed than angry. Maybe the years had thawed some of the hatred.

"You can come see them," she said, tugging on his hand.

"No. You may visit with them; I certainly do not want to do so."

"They're only here for a little while. I thought we could--"

"I said that you may visit with them. Although it would be amusing to see de Chagny's expression if I cackled and carried you away right now, but the halfwit would likely call the authorities. Visit them, and then they will go away."

"Oh, Erik."

"Have a pleasant evening. I will wait in _our_ room." Erik disappeared before she could say anything else.

Christine sighed, wondering if he was really going to be watching them from afar the entire time. Erik's paranoia had faded over the years, but who knew what Raoul's visit would do to his mind.

"My husband won't be joining us," Christine said upon returning, speaking more to Melanie. "He's a little shy sometimes."

Raoul grunted.

"Oh. I see. That's fine," Melanie replied, tilting her head to the side. Christine wondered what Raoul had told his wife about the past.

She learned more about the couple throughout the evening. Melanie was a registered nurse, and Raoul was running a local chain of athletic and outdoors stores. Although they weren't overdressed by any means, it was obvious from their clothing brands and rented Mercedes that Raoul had managed his money well over the years. They were both practical and straightforward. No one ever would have guessed that, not even ten years ago, Raoul had been plagued by a great deal of darkness. Christine mainly spoke about her own career, keeping the topic away from Erik except when Melanie asked what he did for a living.

At one point, Melanie stepped out of the restaurant with a fussy Caleb. Christine turned to Raoul with a wary smile. "So…how much does she know?" she asked in a whisper. "I've tried to be careful about what I say."

Raoul rubbed his right temple, appearing slightly distressed for the first time that night. "She knows about _Falcon_ and what they did. She knows that we were held hostage. She knows we broke up soon afterwards. I never drew the connection to Erik, though. She knows he's disfigured, but she doesn't know the other…stuff. There was never a reason to tell her."

"Oh. Thanks. That's probably for the best"

"So how are you really doing?" he asked, eyeing her closely. "You've been kind of quiet."

"I'm wonderful," she replied. "My career is going well, and Erik is doing great with his music. Actually, he's doing very well with everything."

"That's good," Raoul replied. "He was busy tonight?"

"He still doesn't like being out in public all that much."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she replied, a little more sharply than she intended. "We're happy. Just not social butterflies."

Raoul nodded. "Sure. I understand. Now that Caleb is here, Melanie and I socialize less." His words had a tinge of solace in them, as though he were trying to make her feel better.

She ignored his tone. "You two seem great together."

"We are," Raoul said with an earnest nod. "She was bit of a lifesaver."

Christine gave him a genuine smile. "I'm so happy for you."

"Thanks."

Melanie returned, and she and Raoul smiled at each other. Raoul took his son and set him in his lap. "You'd better be a good boy and let Mommy eat," he said.

"Yeah!" Caleb giggled and clapped his hands. With a grin, Christine leaned over and played peek-a-boo with him, only half-aware of a conversation that Raoul and Melanie were having about the flight back home. Lost in the game, she didn't even realize that they were soon ready to leave.

As she watched Raoul and Melanie interact, Christine found herself missing Erik. She wanted Erik. And she wanted him at her side in public, displaying his love for her. And she wanted to sit in a cozy restaurant with her husband and…and…and a baby….

But she couldn't have it all. Christine could hear her father's voice after her twelve-year-old self had whined about not being able to afford what all the other kids had. _You can't have everything you want, Christine. Pick what you want the most and be happy. That's life, kiddo._

She had chosen Erik and couldn't imagine life without him. And if having Erik meant never having a child…well, that's just the way it would be.

She was a big girl; she could accept that.

Caleb rested his cheek against his father's chest and shyly smiled at her. His eyelids began to droop as he headed off to slumber land, safe in his loving parents' arms.

* * *

_He _did follow them for a short while. It was not that he distrusted his wife, but rather that he wished to be in her presence a few moments longer. And he wished to keep an eye on de Chagny. After they disappeared into a predictably upscale restaurant, he returned to the hotel room.

He sulked, muttering to himself about why the idiot had to intrude into his life now. Why could not de Chagny kindly disappear off the face of the earth? _He_ wished that he was staring down the boy right at this moment, showing off _his_ Christine and gloating in triumph. But his mask did not allow him to eat, and that would have been wretched.

And _he_ had chosen to be like this! If he'd had the damned reconstructive surgery, his face might be perfect by this point. But he was still ugly. Why had he chosen to remain hideous? _What the hell was he thinking? Erik is a disgusting freak!_

Moaning to himself, he collapsed upon the bed and buried his ugly face in the pillow. His thoughts were wild and unclear, and he momentarily forgot why all past decisions were made. All he knew was that his precious Christine was dining with de Chagny and that vilely attractive child. And _he_, the freak, was stuck in this room.

De Chagny had the tendency to make _him_ want to…murder people….

Vile people were always surrounding _his _Christine; they deserved to be strangled and sliced up into little pieces and….

"Erik must calm down," he murmured in the silence. "Christine will return. Erik must stay here and wait. And no one must die."

He managed to merely lie there on the bed for several hours, staring at the ceiling. His muscles uncoiled, and, as had been the case over the last several years, he was able to let go of most of his murderous anger.

Christine finally entered, her mouth twisted into a little frown. Of course, that terrified him. He sat straight up and stared at her, waiting for any revelations.

"Erik," she greeted him.

"Christine."

She approached him, her mouth set in a firm line as she stared him in the eye. "You love me," she stated.

He was momentarily speechless. "Erik loves you," he agreed. "And you will stay."

"No one else can even begin to imagine how close we are," she continued, wrapping her arms around his neck. "They'll never understand because they never see us together…."

"You are mine."

"Yes," she agreed.

"Did that _boy_ put doubts into your mind? I will kill him."

Christine shook her head and began to push him down onto the bed. "Let's not talk about Raoul."

What followed was a very delightful evening. Making vigorous love to his wife was an excellent substitution for murder. And Christine seemed to agree. Curled up in his arms afterwards, she fell asleep with a small smile on her face.

And the cat was not allowed on the bed.

The following morning, Christine yawned and placed her head on his shoulder. "Last evening was a little crazy, wasn't it?" she asked. "The past kind of crept up on us."

"The boy will always be irritating. I wish he would die."

"Oh, Erik."

He paused, remembering his dismal thoughts. "Had I gone through with the surgeries…well…could you imagine the look on de Chagny's face if I were fixed? It is a shame we did not take advantage of the opportunity…."

She softly groaned. "The last thing in the world I want is for you to go through painful surgeries just so you can annoy Raoul."

"It is not for him!" _he_ retorted. "It is for…you should have something nice to take out with you. Like I have."

"I wish you would go out with me," she replied. "As you are. I know it's not that simple but sometimes…I wish people could see me with my husband."

"They would pity you," he replied.

"No. They pity me because they think I'm always alone." Christine sighed. "But it doesn't matter what they think either way. We're happy. That's what matters."

He allowed his bony fingers to run through her hair. The demons of last night seemed less threatening in the morning. From her knitted brow, he could tell that she desired something. "What do you want?" he dared to ask.

"Nothing."

"Tell me."

"Well...," she began. "Raoul and Melanie are leaving late this morning, and I'm going to say goodbye to them. I want you to come with me. You can hang back, if you want, and you don't have to say anything. I just want you to be there."

"You want me to get within ten feet of de Chagny? How vile."

"Only for a moment. I want them to see us together."

"Why do you not simply ask me to shove a rusty nail into my--"

"Erik!"

"Fine," he muttered. "But if de Chagny dies, I take no responsibility."

"Fine. I take complete responsibility for whatever happens to Raoul."

So, with that promise, he accompanied her down the dimly-lit hotel corridor that morning. His muscles stiffened as the eyes of de Chagny and Mrs. de Chagny fell upon him. The woman blinked and cocked her head to the side, studying him. De Chagny had likely given her the whole story of the 'hideous monster who stole his precious fiancée.' _He_ hung back several feet and scowled while Christine said her (hopefully permanent) goodbyes.

"Have a good trip home," Christine told them. "It was so nice to see you."

_Speak for yourself, dear wife. _

"You, too," de Chagny replied. "Good luck with your singing. I'm glad everything has worked out for everyone."

_It would work out better if you would stay far away from me and my wife, you idiot._

"We'll have to visit again," added Mrs. de Chagny, having a difficult time keeping her eyes away from _him_. "It was great meeting you."

_Indeed, Madame. You should learn to keep your husband better occupied. _

Christine then bent down to the level of the child. "Bye, Caleb."

"Bye!" he replied with a grin.

Christine gave the toddler a kiss on the cheek. _He_ cringed in disgust.

When she stepped back to _his_ side, he possessively put an arm around his wife and stared de Chagny in the eye. De Chagny shifted and turned his attention to Christine. After a few more dull formalities, they parted. "Take care," said de Chagny, giving them one last lingering glance.

"You, too," Christine replied, watching them leave. Her gaze drifted to the child. Thankfully, there was no regret on her face. But there was an odd glint in her eyes as she stared down at the younger de Chagny. A glint of longing.

_He_ did not like it. Even when she looked away from them and nuzzled _his_ arm, an unpleasant feeling remained in his chest.

She loved _him_. But _he_ knew. He knew exactly what she desired. He had always known, only choosing to ignore it all these years.

"Let's go back to our room," she suggested, smiling.

"Fine."

"Is something wrong?" she asked, perhaps disturbed by his curtness. "Are you still mad about Raoul?"

"No," he murmured. "No. I am not angry. The last twelve hours have simply been irritating."

"I know," she replied. "But we're good now. They're gone. It's all over."

"Yes, it is over." He kept his arm around her as they returned to their room.

The dreaded topic was not discussed that day; she never mentioned the de Chagny child. And he hoped that he could continue ignoring the issue for another decade. And another. Until one day, as with all biological matters, it would simply be too late.

For how could he ever give her the one thing that might destroy everything—including his sanity?

Children--they were clingy, whiney, dirty, loud, obnoxious, ignorant, naïve, annoying creatures.

And he did not wish to have one invading _his_ life and taking _his _Christine.

But he had the horrid feeling that this matter was far from over.


	20. Chapter 20

Hi, guys! Thank you as always for the lovely reviews. I hope that you're all enjoying the holidays.

I got a lot of varying opinions concerning E/C's dilemma. I took everything into consideration, and this chapter was the result. It won't please everyone, but I hope that it's realistic.

This chapter does deal with mature topics, but there's nothing graphic. If you're offended by topics involving reproduction, you may want to avoid it.

Thank you all again! Happy Holidays!

**Read and Review!!!**

Christine was somewhat shocked when a national news program did a brief piece on Erik's music. The reporters stated that an anonymous composer had crept onto the scene, subtly placing his (or her) works in movies and on a limited number of CDs. The interviewee on television, a representative from the music industry, said that the compositions had surged to popularity among classical fans and those looking for a 'different sound.' Some pop and rock stars were even using variations of the music as backgrounds for their songs.

The anchorman chuckled toward the end of the interview. "Any chance we might find out who this mysterious guy or gal is?"

"It's always possible they'll come out of hiding," replied the interviewee with a grin. "They're probably smiling right now as we talk about them."

Both men laughed.

But Erik was certainly not smiling.

"Why will they not leave me alone?" he growled.

She shook her head. "I'm always careful when I give your music to the publisher. Mr. Richardson knows he'll lose our business if he tells anyone anything. I made sure that was written into the contract, _and_ I had a lawyer look at it."

"People only think they wish to know Erik," he grumbled. "And after they discover the truth, they gouge their eyes out."

"I'll talk to him again," she replied.

That Friday, she went to a meeting with him and expressed her concerns.

"It is getting a little harder now that the music is becoming more popular," Mr. Richardson admitted. "But no one is close to finding out anything. Hell, I don't even know very much." He laughed and scratched his chin. "It's actually kind of fun having a little mystery, though."

"As long as it stays mysterious," she replied, slightly annoyed.

Mr. Richardson looked down at her, squinted, and then smirked. "You've been doing some singing as well. I've seen you in the papers. Are you _sure_ you're not Ms. Anonymous? It's obvious that you've got musical talent."

"Thank you. But no. I'm not."

"Hm." He glanced at her wedding ring. "What's your husband do again?"

"He's…." She paused. Telling Mr. Richardson that Erik was a composer would be a dead giveaway. "He's in the military and not home much."

"Ah. I see. Well, at least you manage to stay occupied while he's away. Singing and promoting some genius's music."

"Yeah." She managed a smile. "Well…it's no use sitting around and being depressed."

"Yep. You don't have kids, right?"

"…No. Maybe after my husband comes back." It was a pretty lie that made her heart flutter. Nearly six months had passed since she'd seen Raoul, and Christine hadn't been able to forget that adorable toddler. In fact, her desire to have her own child grew stronger every day, constantly gnawing at the back of her mind.

"Probably a good idea. Kids can keep you busy."

"Yeah…."

Christine left soon after, figuring that there wasn't much more she could do to keep the secret safe. After coming home, she removed her shoes and fell onto the couch, still thinking about the conversation with Mr. Richardson. Cordie jumped up into her lap and purred as Christine ran her hands through the white fur. They waited for Erik to come out of the basement.

Christine smiled at her husband when he finally emerged holding a stack of papers.

"Did that idiot agree to keep our secret, or am I going to have to meet with him myself?" he asked. "I am sure that I could be quite persuasive."

"Everything is fine," she replied. "No one knows."

"Good." Erik took a seat beside her and began to scribble onto the white sheets. She watched him work, the soft sound of pen against paper making her yawn and clouding her judgment.

"Your music might be around forever," she softly commented.

"Mm," he replied. "I suppose it might."

"You're brilliant."

He looked up at her and chuckled. "You are a good wife." Erik glanced back down, involved in his work.

"Erik?"

He looked up again. "Yes?"

"I think you should live on."

"I have lived much longer than I ever thought possible. I am quite content with whatever years I have."

"But…you could go on longer…." She probably should have stopped there.

"What? What are you talking about?" Erik studied her. "Ah! I know that look. You want something. What does my wife want?"

"Oh…nothing." She looked away.

"_Christine. _After ten years with me, I do not know why you feel the need to play games."

"Well…I just…." She swallowed and then dove off the cliff. "Have you…have you ever thought that maybe we could…have…a child?"

"No."

"Oh." A stinging sensation encompassed her heart. "Why not?"

"Why do you want one?" he nearly snapped.

"Well…I just…we're doing well. We have a nice home and enough money. We've come a long ways. And it seems perfect to have a new member in our family, a baby to share our lives with. A way that we can live on and---"

"_No._"

"Why?" _She was not going to cry…she was not going to cry…she was not going to cry…._

"For more reasons than I can count," he retorted.

"Just tell me why."

Erik half-sighed, half-growled. "It might be hideous. I do not know the genetic extent of my deformity, and I do not wish to find out. Secondly, it would take you; it would be a little parasite that sucks away what is _mine_. Third, I cannot be a…a paternal _figure_ to anything. Surely that does not require further explanation. Surely you can see that this idea makes absolutely no sense!"

She took a deep breath before giving him the long thought out rebuttal. "I don't care what our baby looks like. But, if it makes you feel better, maybe we could get Dr. McKenzie to help us with some type of genetic testing. And I _won't_ let our baby take me. I'll quit singing for awhile, and there will be plenty of time and…and love to go around. And, Erik, I don't expect you to do anything. I hope you grow to want our child, but I'll take care of everything…feeding, diapers--everything!"

"You will grow exhausted and faint from all you try to do."

"No! I have lots of energy." Her eyes lit up. "I'm barely over thirty. Not too old. Not too young. It's the perfect time!"

"No. I will buy you pets. Any pets. Even illegal, exotic ones. Or perhaps some jewelry? Clothing? A mansion. Anything but an irritating child! I do not understand why you want a child. They are so completely intrusive."

"I want something of ours to continue on."

"My music will live on!" he declared. "You said so!"

"It will," she agreed. "But…oh, Erik! I want a baby. Only one. Just one child." She'd promised herself that she wouldn't start begging, but it was too late to turn back now.

"If you want our bloodline to live on, then perhaps you could bear a child, and we could give it away to someone else. Our genes will live on, but we will not be bothered. How is that? Would that make you happy?"

Christine stared at him in horror, her eyes widening as her lip trembled. With a cry, she jumped up from the couch and ran into the bedroom. Cordie dashed into the room, and Christine locked the door behind them. She sobbed, not caring if Erik heard her.

She was vaguely aware of him twisting the doorknob but didn't care. How could he say something so utterly cruel to her? Giving away their precious baby would be like stabbing her in the heart. How could he? _How dare he!_

"Christine?" he called. "Let me in. _Now._ I did not actually mean we would do that. Of course we will not do that. That is ridiculous. But…we cannot have a child. Surely you understand this."

She glared at the closed door and didn't say anything. The final verdict had been announced, and Christine had the horrible feeling that he would never change his mind. Merely from the expression of complete disgust on his face, she guessed that Erik would never want a child. _Never._

The finality of _never_ was heart wrenching.

Christine remembered being twenty and listening to Raoul talk about how he wanted a big family. She'd been nervous at that time, not really feeling that she was mature enough for motherhood. But now she was ready! She couldn't deny it anymore; she desperately wanted a baby.

But _never_?

She wasn't sure if Erik could ever be a father in the traditional sense. But surely…surely there was some happy medium.

Erik unlocked the door by himself and walked into the room. She turned and stared at him, still sniffling and gripping onto the pillow.

"Erik did not mean those words," he stated. He kept his distance, obviously disturbed by her outburst. "Let us forget this matter. I will buy you another cat. A kitten!"

She placed her head back onto the pillow and stared at the wall. "Never mind. Let's not talk about it now." Christine didn't want to hear him say 'no' anymore; she needed to think of a better argument.

"Christine." He took several steps forward and reached for her. Letting go of her anger, she sat up and allowed him to embrace her. Erik nearly cradled her in his arms. "You do not need a child," he stated, using his musical voice. "You have your Erik. You must take care of your Erik. And Erik will take care of you."

"Let's not…." She sighed and took another stab at it. "I can take care of you and a baby. I'm not incompetent."

"Erik needs you," he insisted. "Only Erik."

"I'm here," she replied. It was obvious that she wasn't going to win that night.

A few months passed, and the topic was not discussed. She would only watch other people's children with that feeling in her chest, like an ant was sinking its little jaws into her heart. Erik was good to her during that time, continuing his offer to buy her things---pets, jewelry, clothing. He was even more willing to go out in public with her as long as "the vile sun" wasn't shining on him.

Maybe he could sense that she was hurting. The next ten years would be a slow and painful countdown to the point when _never_ would become her reality. And Erik, she guessed, knew this. Yet he still wouldn't yield. He knew how much she wanted this, and he still wouldn't give it to her.

She tried to bring up the topic again one weekend. "It would be so wonderful to have a child and to teach him or her about music," she commented. "The three of us together…singing or playing instruments…."

Erik shook his head. "I could not imagine a more painful sound than a toddler decimating a musical instrument. How wretched." He went to the basement, and she was left standing there with her arms curled around her body.

Whenever she tried to bring it up after that, he ignored her or disappeared from the room. Each time, she was one step closer to _never_.

One night, Erik rolled over toward her, signaling that he wished to be intimate. His cold lips brushed against her cheek and neck while his hands ran over her nightgown-clad torso. The two yellow lights hovered over her, awaiting her affections.

"No," she murmured, feeling that familiar sting. "I can't…tonight." Hopefully, he would assume it had to do with female issues. Erik kissed her cheek and moved away from her, always respectful when it came to the matter.

Christine felt guilty for pushing him away, but each day it was becoming a little more painful to face the reality. For the first time in many years, she was genuinely unsure about where this was all heading. Would she finally be able to wake up one morning and simply…_get over it_?

"Do you wish to have a voice lesson?" Erik asked one evening.

"No," she replied. "I'm kind of tired."

"Ah. Do you wish me to sing for you?" His voice was soft.

"All right," she whispered. "You sing."

Erik sang, and, as always, it was beautiful. She let his voice seep into her mind and hypnotize her…paralyze her…tranquilize her. But when his song was over, the pain came back. In fact, it seemed even worse.

"Erik," she began, gripping the edge of a nearby table so tightly that her fingers ached. Her throat felt thick. "I need…I need some time alone."

He flinched. "_What?_"

The horror in his eyes made her feel even worse, but she pressed forward. "I need a couple of nights to myself. I'm…stressed, I think. Maybe from performances," she rambled. "I need some nights alone, maybe at a hotel."

"You can rest here," he rasped. "We will take a break from your lessons."

She shook her head. "I need some time to myself."

"You cannot leave…."

"I'm not leaving for very long. Like when you want to be in the basement by yourself sometimes. I need that."

"You may go to the basement," he snapped. "I will not bother you."

"Erik," she began, forcing herself not to cry. "Please let me have a few days to myself. _Please._ It's important to me. It's better for us."

"You cannot leave me!"

"I am not leaving you!" she nearly shouted, surprising them both. "I need a little time! Give that to me. Please, Erik!"

He stared at her—pain, anger, confusion, and finally acceptance flickering in his gaze. His hands clenched and unclenched, and he leaned backward. "Where will you go?"

"Just a nice hotel, maybe in the city. I can take Cordie, or I can leave her with you."

"Leave her. You would not abandon your _cat_."

"I am not abandoning _anyone._ I need a few days to myself."

"Then _go_. Leave Erik." He turned away from her and ran to the basement before she could blink. The ache in her chest grew as a tear made its way down her cheek. She nearly followed him and told him that she'd changed her mind and wasn't going. Something stopped her, though. Perhaps it was the knowledge that she truly did need this time alone…time to figure this all out before things became irreparably worse.

Christine packed an overnight bag with three days worth of clothes and some toiletries. Before she left, she fed Cordie and then headed for the basement. The door was unlocked, and she opened it. Erik was standing with his arms limp at his sides, staring at his remaining goldfish.

"I love you," she said. "I'll be back soon. I promise. I know you'll be okay."

He was silent for a moment. "I will have your cat and fish."

She nearly choked. Even after all these years, Erik still felt the need to have hostages. "I'd come back if you didn't have them," she evenly replied, grinding her teeth together to keep from crying.

He glanced at her. "If you do not go, I---"

"You'll what?" Christine whispered, daring to hope that he might make the final concession she so desperately wanted.

"I will get you another kitten," he murmured. "A flawless one. Nothing else you have will ever be ugly…."

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "I'll see you in a few days. I love you."

He didn't respond, and she turned around and left. Christine managed to numb herself as she walked out the front door and drove to her destination. It was a nice but not overly-priced hotel that included a restaurant and spa—the perfect place to escape for a few days. After registering at the front desk, she ran upstairs with her travel bag, not wanting to be bothered with a slow elevator. She locked herself in the hotel room, jumped onto the neatly-made bed, buried her face into the plush pillow, and sobbed.

Christine cried until she could barely breathe. And then, once she had caught her breath, she bawled some more. Finally, there were no more tears left, and she was left staring at the ceiling, exhausted and defeated.

Maybe she could volunteer at a daycare or preschool; that way, she could be around kids without actually having one. The idea wasn't that comforting. She wanted her own child…Erik's child.

What else was there? What compromise was possible? What could she say to make him change his mind?

Christine finally sat up and looked into a mirror on the wall. Her hair was a mess, her eyes had rings, and her cheeks were flushed while the rest of her face was pale. She'd lost some weight, too, which was never a great thing in her case.

She desperately wanted someone to hug her and tell her that it was going to be okay. No one ever told her that! She was always the one who had to say it--because she was supposed to be the strong one.

At some point, Christine ventured out of her hotel room to browse over the vending machine selection, hoping no one saw her in the hallway. A chocolate bar and a bottle of soda sounded appealing; maybe caffeine and sugar would bring clarity. When the candy machine ate her change, she groaned and nearly started crying again. _All she wanted was a baby and some damned chocolate! Was that really so much to ask for? Was it?_

"Give it a good, hard whack," said a friendly male voice behind her.

Christine whirled around in surprise. A guy in his thirties with dark-brown hair down to the middle of his cheeks and a fairly muscular build was smiling at her. At the sight of her face, his smile faded. "Hey, it's only a candy bar," he said. Reaching over her shoulder, he pounded the machine two times with his fist. The chocolate bar tumbled down, hitting the bottom with a dull thud.

"Thanks," she said with a swallow, reaching down to grab it.

"No problem. My friend claims the mafia owns these machines."

She laughed, and it felt nice. It felt so wonderful that she almost started crying again. Horrified, Christine started to run away before the guy called the police to report a crazy girl in the building.

"Hey, hey," the man said, resting a hand on the side of her left arm. "It's going to be okay. What's wrong? Do you need some help?"

There. Someone had said it to her. _It's going to be okay._ Taking one hand, she wiped the tears from her face and looked up. "No. I'm fine," she stated. "Thanks."

"Are you sure? No one's bothering you, right?"

"No. It's…it's just been a long day."

"Yeah. I've had more than a few of those," he replied. "Sure you don't need any help? Or some real food? I've got a large pepperoni pizza back in my room."

"Maybe I could…N-no," she replied. "No. I'm sorry. I can't."

"Are you sure?"

"Well...um…Yes, I'm sure. Thank you, though. For everything." She turned around and quickly walked away, her hands shaking.

The warmth of his body, his broad chest, and his general masculinity were undeniably tempting during her moment of weakness. Some primal part of her was also aware that this robust man could give her a healthy baby. But she could never go down that dangerous, destructive path; her heart knew this fact.

Once in her room, Christine watched a romantic comedy and hugged a pillow, avoiding the act of thinking. She slept late into the morning and spent the next day watching movies. The only time she left the hotel was at dinner when she went to a nice seafood restaurant and treated herself to buttered lobster and chocolate cake.

The day afterwards, she got a massage and a manicure, along with several new outfits from the mall. She swam in the hotel pool and then spent some time roasting in the sauna, pampering herself in every way possible. By that night, some rationality and calmness returned to her. Although she'd needed this short getaway for her mental health, it wasn't solving her problem. All the manicures in the world wouldn't get her a baby.

Christine still wasn't ready to give up on a child, but maybe there was no easy answer. Every day, she would simply have to give Erik reasons to look forward to a child and reassure him that their daughter or son wouldn't destroy everything. It was possible that Erik would never change, but she still had years to work on him. She hadn't completely lost hope.

After two cups of coffee and a giant cinnamon roll, she returned home the following morning. Nerves ate at her stomach as she approached the door to their condominium. What would be on the other side?

_You knew full well what this might do to Erik. _

As soon as she opened the door, Cordie was at her feet, meowing and rubbing against her legs. With a smile, Christine knelt down to the floor. "Hi, kitty," she murmured. "Did you miss me?"

"I knew you would not leave the feline," said the bitter voice of her husband.

Christine sharply glanced up. Erik was standing there, appearing haggard with his white shirt wrinkled and untucked over his emaciated frame. His arms were folded against his chest, and his weight was shifted onto his left foot.

"I wouldn't leave you either," she replied, standing and approaching him.

He took a step backwards. "I would die if you left forever," he said.

"I'm not--"

"No one else would," he continued. "No one else would die now. Even the cat would live. And the fish. Only Erik would die. You should not stay only to save others."

"Erik, you know that's not why I've stayed. You know I love you." She shook her head in frustration. "Why do you have to say these things? Why are you being so cruel?"

He kept his distance and was quiet for a few moments. "Yes, perhaps you love Erik," he finally admitted. "But it is not enough now, is it? You want more. That is why you left."

"We don't have to talk about it now."

"But you left Erik. You left him."

"I didn't--It's not that you're not enough," she replied in resignation. "It's just…I've always wanted a family. With my husband, I want a family."

"What if it is physically impossible?" he asked. "Will you leave forever then?"

She'd already considered this. "No," she whispered. "No. If it's not possible, then that's the way it is. I…I only want to try. I want a chance. But we don't have to talk about it right now. There's plenty of time." She took a step to the right. "I need to wash my hands; they're sticky. And then we'll have some lunch."

He didn't say anything as she walked to the bathroom and closed the door. Yawning, she soaped up her hands and turned on the warm water. When she tried to look into the mirror, Christine realized that the medicine cabinet was open. Her eyes drifted over the contents, and she mentally made a note to pick up more aspirin. Pausing, Christine looked over the bottles and packages again. And a third time. Her heart skipped a beat as she realized what was missing. Bending down, she frantically dug through the drawers and cabinets, wondering if she'd misplaced the new container.

But no. They were completely gone.

It probably wasn't the most medically sound thing for him to do but…_oh! _Oh! A moment passed before the realization sunk in.

Of course, she cried again, this time with joy. After she'd pulled herself together and brushed her hair, Christine came out and merely stared at him, unable to verbally express her gratitude.

Erik knew that she knew. "As I have said, I cannot be…a paternal figure to anything," he slowly stated. "Erik cannot. But perhaps you can be a parental figure, if you wish it. You seem…right for it somehow. Perhaps it will make you happy again. And then you will stay with Erik."

"Erik, I--"

"My Christine should have what she wants. Erik cannot break his promise to his Christine, can he? Christine has done too much for Erik…."

She paused as a troubling thought tugged at her mind. "Erik? You're not doing this only so I don't leave, right? Because that…it shouldn't be that way. I won't leave--no matter what you decide. We can talk about it some more."

"Even if you do not leave, you will suffer, won't you?" he asked. She didn't answer. "And you must be happy. I do not want a dying, wilting wife."

She stepped forward and tightly hugged him. "We're going to be fine," she said. "It's going to be fine, whatever happens." She paused and then softly added, "Thank you."

They stayed in each other's company throughout the day. From the way he'd been speaking, she'd been a little worried about his sanity, but Erik seemed to recover. They worked on their music together and shared quiet conversation concerning her upcoming performances. Christine ordered takeout at a steak restaurant, including a whole cheesecake.

At one point, she also made a trip to the basement to see how it had fared in her absence. From the thick stacks of paper on the wooden shelves, it was obvious that Erik had spent a great deal of time down there, numbing himself with music. He probably hadn't eaten or slept. Romeo was swimming back and forth in his tank, oblivious to the happenings around him.

They slept comfortably in each other's arms but weren't intimate that night. Or the next night. Or the next. She didn't push it, deciding to partially put the matter in Erik's control again. If he'd said that he wanted to wait for another year or two, Christine would have granted the request. They didn't even talk about a child over the next week, though.

Finally, one night, Erik reached for her. She eagerly accepted his affections, a part of her afraid that he would suddenly change his mind. But he didn't, and she felt a sense of warm completeness that thawed some of the last year's ice. She felt loved and whole again.

"It might happen now, mightn't it?" he asked afterwards in the quiet darkness.

"Maybe," she whispered. "It's probably too early."

"We neglected genetic testing."

"Yes. But it'll be okay." She sincerely doubted that Erik's disfigurement was inheritable.

"Is there any way to stop it?" he asked.

"…Yes…." Her voice cracked.

"But you do not want to stop it?"

"No. Please, no."

"Then we will not. We will not. Do not cry."

She held Erik that night. Now that she'd won the battle, Christine felt stronger.

She would have to be strong.

If her final wish _was_ granted, she couldn't be one of those overemotional pregnant women. She couldn't lie there with a swollen stomach, whining over how miserable she was and demanding that Erik do things for her. And she probably couldn't expect him to be in the hospital room during the delivery; no, that wouldn't be good for anyone involved.

Knowing these things, Christine went to sleep, already preparing herself for the days ahead.


	21. Chapter 21

A big thanks to everyone who reviewed. I was happily surprised by all the interest in the topic of E/C and children. I may even extend the vignettes a little longer than planned just so nothing feels rushed. I hope you all enjoy this particular chapter.

Thanks to _MadLizzy _for editing and for adding some mature ideas to these more sensitive vignettes.

**Read and Review!!!**

After that pleasurable night, he insisted on genetic testing.

_He_ suffered through a nightmare in which _something_ with his face was staring up at him from a rocking cradle. Its tiny, yellow eyes followed his every movement as unnatural wails escaped its throat. He awoke gripping the sheets, his heart hammering and a scream threatening to emerge from his twisted lips. Unable to sleep, he merely stared at his dozing wife.

She was smiling. Obviously, Christine was having a better dream.

"I do not want you suffering the fate of my mother," he declared the following morning. "Even she did not deserve such horror."

Standing behind his chair, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. "You know it won't matter to me. I'll love our baby no matter what. "

He nearly groaned, wishing that she would be more damned reasonable. "Do you really want to hear the nurses scream because something hideous has emerged from _your_ body? Is that what you want, Christine? Perhaps we could make a place for the creature in the basement, and you could come visit both of us every now and then with a basket of baked treats." He placed his head into his hands.

"We are _not_ going to hide our baby in the basement. God, Erik. I'm not like your mother."

She still did not understand, and he was dangerously close to screaming at her. "It does not matter how much love you give it," he said through gritted teeth. "It will either have to face the rest of the world or hide forever. There are no other options. None. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she replied. "That would be hard. I know stupid people would make comments if…." She sighed and took a seat, her mouth pursed to one side. "We'll get Dr. McKenzie to help us with testing. At least we'll have warning if something might happen. And then we can make a more informed decision."

"Good."

If there was any chance of the infant having _his_ face, _he_ might insist that de Chagny pay a visit and give Christine attractive offspring.

Of course, _he_ would then have to kill de Chagny for impregnating Christine. It would be an extremely violent death, too. But, ultimately, it all might work out for the best….

"We'll take each step slowly," she continued. "I won't do anything without asking you."

He paused. "What about…a calico kitten?"

"Oh, Erik. Are you really that unhappy about it?"

"No," he softly replied. "No. But you must have warning before bearing a possibly deformed, disabled, or otherwise impaired creature."

"I will."

Ever since Christine had returned from her getaway, he had searched for signs that she might permanently leave. Her three day absence had terrified him, and her growing unhappiness had left him with few options.

To his relief, though, she showed no signs of leaving. Christine went through her daily rituals-- household chores, errands, singing. She always came home on time and was eager for affection. Christine simply wanted offspring. And nothing would alter that fact.

"I'll call Dr. McKenzie today," she said, standing and kissing him on the cheek. The shine of optimism had returned to her eyes. _He_ grunted as she practically skipped away.

The doctor came to their home a week later. Harold McKenzie glanced between them with nothing short of exuberance. Perhaps being the combination of scientist and philanthropist made him one of the few human beings who could stand to stare at _his_ face—or stand the idea of _his _child.

_He _was not sure whether to despise Dr. McKenzie even more or hate him a little less.

"It's so good to see you," said Christine upon answering the door. "Thank you so much for coming."

"Good to see you, too. Wow. Children, huh? Wow."

"Yes!" She beamed. "We just want to know how it'll all turn out."

"Of course. I can understand that. I'll try to be of help."

They went through the irritating ritual where Christine offered him a drink, and Dr. McKenzie refused. _He_ simply wanted to get this whole damned thing over with.

"Well, let's go ahead and get this done. I'll need a DNA sample," Mr. McKenzie said, approaching him.

_He_ glared and folded his arms. "And how do you intend to obtain it?"

"There are several ways. A blood sample. Or if you'd swab your cheek for me, that would be helpful." The doctor smiled, his twitching upper lip the only sign of slight nervousness. "You can choose, Erik."

"I will do the latter." _He_ grabbed the swab and turned his back to the doctor, feeling like a frog in a jar awaiting dissection. Removing his mask, he quickly brushed the inside of his cheek. After replacing the mask, he turned around and thrust the stick back at the doctor, unable to keep from sneering.

"Thank you," Dr. McKenzie replied, taking the swab without flinching. He put it in a plastic container and twisted the lid closed. "I'll get this to the right people and hopefully obtain some results. After the lab contacts me, I'll call you."

"Thank you so much," Christine said, still smiling. "Just tell me how much it all costs, and I'll make payment arrangements."

"I'll try to work something out for you," he replied. "You two have a good day." As Christine walked him to the door, Dr. McKenzie whispered something to her about another type of test.

_He_ glared. _There was no way in hell…._

Fortunately (for the doctor), Christine whispered, "I don't think Erik would want to do that."

_He_ watched the doctor depart, his muscles tensing. On the one hand, if his genes were completely mutated, it might be the end of this entire matter. What if Christine were told that her child might be grossly deformed? Even she would not go through with it.

On the other hand, deformed DNA would mean _he_ truly was a complete freak, right down to the last gene. What if the tests proved him not human?

"I think Dr. McKenzie likes us," she stated, returning to the living room "He sort of reminds me of this guy in my fifth grade class who insisted on feeding the hamsters fresh vegetable leaves every morning." She giggled. "When the teacher tried to feed them cheap hamster food, he got really mad." She paused. "He was really smart, though. Keith. That was his name."

_How could she think of these things at a time like this? _

"What if I am genetically a monster?" he haughtily asked. "Will you still love your mutant Erik?"

"Oh, Erik. You're not a monster or a mutant. Except where the baby is concerned, the DNA test doesn't matter."

_He_ simultaneously wished to kiss her and shake her senseless.

Every time the phone rang over the next month, they both jumped. He would shudder as Christine's eyes lit up. Whenever it was proven not to be Dr. McKenzie, her shoulders would slump and his would relax. Christine remained close to him; in fact, she seemed to dislike being alone for long periods of time. That, of course, was perfectly fine with him.

Finally, the phone rang, and the moment of doom arrived. He curled into himself as he heard Christine answer.

"Hello? Oh, Dr. McKenzie! Hi!" The pitch of her voice rose. "Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Oh? Okay. That's so…wonderful." A long pause. "Great. Great. Thank you so much. Yes. That's what I thought, but Erik wanted—Uh-huh. Thank you. For everything. I will. You, too. Bye." There was a click as she hung up. And then…"_Erik!_"

He watched as she ran into the living room, smiling wide and reaching out to him. He refrained from dashing to the basement.

"Everything is fine," she declared. "Your DNA is like everyone else's. In fact, it's better because you don't have a predis-dispos…." In her excitement, she was stumbling over the words. Christine took a deep breath and tried again. "You don't have a predisposition to certain diseases or cancers like some people. Dr. McKenzie said he thinks you just kind of developed…differently in the end because of the chemicals."

"Ah." He didn't know what to say or think. On the one hand, a perfectly good excuse had been decimated. On the other hand, he was genetically human. There was relief in that fact.

What was there to say now? "Well, my wife, I suppose...." He could see the utter delight in her eyes, the glow in her cheeks. How could he deny her anything? He couldn't. "I suppose it is done."

Evening came with all its temptations. In her white summer nightgown with her soft skin and long hair, she was irresistible. Perhaps she looked so lovely only to lure him, but _he_ could not care. Her palms ran over his cheeks as she stared up at him in the dim room. She whispered sweet words and rubbed up against his bare torso, her lips trailing along his neck and chest. No man, monster, or mutant could have abstained.

There was also something dangerous about their intimacy in those next months—as though he were doing something forbidden and perhaps wicked. It was horrifying and thrilling.

_If you wish to have _all_ of Erik, then you shall have _him_!_

But Christine never seemed to sense any darkness in it. She was only…happy.

At least for awhile.

A month passed, and, one morning, he watched Christine walk into the kitchen with a tiny frown. She looked up at him and tilted her head, one slipper-covered foot rubbing over the other. "Not this time," she said with a smile and a shrug. "Oh well. Maybe next time."

It took him nearly three minutes to decipher her words. He would hear them repeated over the next year. Each time, the disappointment was slightly more evident on her face. Each time, the "maybe next time" became less hopeful and more dejected.

How was it possible to feel relieved and ashamed and mournful all at the same time?

"Not this time," she nearly whispered one June evening. Christine curled up on the couch beside him and stared at the blank television screen, one of her hands twirling the edges of her hair. The "maybe next time" never came.

He silently sat there as the beginnings of self-loathing began to sink into his mind.

It should have been obvious from the beginning. He was only capable of bringing death; he could never be part of creating life.

Christine was quiet throughout the next week, staring over magazines or watching television with the feline. She didn't sing or even leave the house. At some point, he could no longer stand the dismal atmosphere, choosing to head to the basement without a word to her. As he entered the dark, cool confines of his underground refuge, he saw that there would be no mercy for him that day.

Romeo was dead.

Upon leaving London, _he_ had vowed to give her absolutely everything—everything that de Chagny had to offer her. In retrospect, the notion had been naïve and ridiculous. Ten years of near bliss could not undo over thirty years of damage. He could not give her walks in the sunlight. He could not escort her to dinner parties and dances or even restaurants. And now he could not even give her what she wanted most.

Falling upon the sofa, he began to drown in these thoughts, wondering how lonely she was in their isolated little world. He remained there for hours, not even able to immerse himself in music. To be honest, he had not composed in months. This was not about _his_ misery; it was about her unhappiness. Over time, he'd learned how to deal with many of his own mental battles. But how did he fight her demons—especially when he was the cause of them?

At some point, he was vaguely aware of footsteps, and then the door to the basement softly squeaked open. "Erik?" She poked her head into the room "Are you okay? You've been down here all night."

He hadn't realized that over twelve hours had passed. "I am fine. Merely thinking."

"Can I come in?"

"Yes."

She took several steps forward and stood in front of him, wearing a wrinkled t-shirt and a robe. "Erik…." Her voice was hesitant as she wrung her hands together, and his heart clenched in terror. "I wanted to say…to say that I'm sorry. I've been kind of difficult over the past…well, the past year." Tears gathered in her eyes. "I never wanted to hurt you."

"You should have what you wish for," he replied.

"No. I mean, I did want a baby. But I'll be okay. There are other things; there's you. I need you."

He moved slightly so that she could sit down beside him. "Perhaps I could steal an infant for you. Hospitals have laughably lax security." He was not joking.

"I only want yours," she said with such sincerity that he could only believe her.

"Erik is broken inside and out."

"No, Erik. For all we know, it's me. Maybe I can't…."

He scoffed. "You know that is untrue."

"I _don't_ know. And it doesn't really matter…." She rested her cheek on his shoulder. "Oh no!" Her head shot up as she noticed the fish tank. "Romeo died."

"Indeed."

"Oh…." She sniffled. "He had a good life. I'll miss them both, though. They were like family." She put her cheek back on his shoulder. "Maybe we can get more fish."

"You will stay?" he asked. The question was meant to be somewhat ambiguous.

"Yes. It's nice and cool down here. I'm not bothering you, right?"

"Of course not."

Christine remained with him, sleeping occasionally. It was impossible to tell how much time passed or whether it was day or night. If he had thought she was remaining there out of pity for him, he would have suggested they go upstairs. But…she seemed to want to be there, snuggling down as though the darkness were a warm blanket.

After she sneezed three times, he decided that it was time to take her to the surface. He picked his wife up bridal style, carried her up the stairs, and laid her on their bed. After pulling the covers up to her neck, he merely watched her sleep and debated whether to return to the basement.

"Erik. You'd better not leave me here by myself," she said, glaring at him from her pillow.

"Perhaps I should not," he replied, falling down beside her.

She wrapped her arms around his neck. "I'm sorry I left," she whispered. "For those three days."

"It is fine." That wasn't entirely true, but he did not wish to dwell on it.

"I was scared," she continued. "I realized how old I was. My twenties disappeared."

"I stole what was left of your youth, I suppose."

"No, no. They disappeared quickly because I was happy. They were wonderful years. But I'm still older now."

He snorted. "Erik is much older than you."

"But I'm getting close to the age that you were when you first met me. Isn't that strange?"

"It is odd, I suppose."

"Anyway, I did want a baby. But it's not worth losing everything else. I don't want to hurt you anymore over it." She took a deep, shaky breath. "We can quit trying…if you want."

"I do not think it really matters whether we try."

"But would a baby make you miserable?" she asked. "Tell me the truth. Does it really upset you?"

He paused. "I do not know. Would it be like a cat?"

She laughed. "Probably not. I don't know. I've…never had a baby either."

He could hear fondness in her voice. She still wanted offspring, but perhaps their entire lives did not depend on it. And he was no longer sure what to make of anything, so he did not answer her question.

"You can think about it," she murmured. "Tell me later." Her breathing soon changed; she had gone back to sleep.

He did think about _it_, but he never actually gave her a reply. He allowed life to go on as it would, never telling her to buy more pills nor stating that he desired a child. They relaxed back into a normal pattern of work and music and food and lovemaking without purpose. Occasionally, a gleam of longing entered her eyes when she saw small children on the television or during an evening outing. He learned that he was capable of bringing her comfort, be it a cup of herbal tea or a kiss on the temple.

Perhaps it was the evaporation of the tension that caused _it_ to happen several months later.

The first thing he noticed was that she became very quiet one week. He watched as she stared into space during their meals and a voice lesson. Her expression was not downcast but rather distant.

"You will not concentrate," he complained, setting the violin in its case.

Christine blinked. "Oh. I'm sorry. Tired, I guess." She smiled at him, and there was such warmth in her expression that he could no longer be irritated with her.

"At least your next performance will not be for months," he replied. "We will quit for the night."

Several days later, she hopped up from the table after eating scrambled eggs and ran out of the room. Alarmed, he followed her to the door of the bathroom, cringing when he heard the sounds on the other side. The sink then ran for ten seconds.

"You are not well," he stated, staring at her flushed cheeks after she emerged.

"It might just be something I ate." She kept her eyes lowered.

"Ah. That is the last time we buy that brand of eggs. Their chickens are likely infested with insects. Or perhaps some idiot coughed on you."

"Yeah. There is a flu going around."

"Indeed. You will go to bed now."

Christine laughed as she always did when he made a blunt command. "Maybe a short nap wouldn't hurt."

Even after sleeping for two hours, though, she still had that strange expression. He made her stay on the couch or in bed. Who knew what sort of disease some vile person had given his Christine?

Two days later, she kissed his cheek and said, "I'm going out for a little while."

"To where?"

"Grocery shopping."

"There will be more diseased people there."

"I'll be careful." She was out the door before he could protest.

He sensed that something was off, especially when she returned with only three grocery bags after being gone for nearly two hours. Ten minutes later, she was in the bathroom.

Perhaps _he_ knew by that point; he simply was not ready to acknowledge it. Neither was she—at least not to him. Christine spent much of the evening fidgeting and biting her lip as though waiting for something. When he touched her shoulder, she jumped.

"You are tense," he said. "You make Erik tense."

"I'm sorry," she murmured, her gaze drifting downward again. Her mouth opened as though she wished to say something, closed, and then opened again. "Sing to me so I can relax."

At least he could do that for her.

The next day, she scheduled a doctor's appointment. He never asked why; she never explained, only saying that she was going out for a few hours. After stepping outside, she came back in and grabbed an umbrella before heading out the door again. A light rain tapped unevenly against the roof, creating an ominous melody.

By the end of that day, she'd received enough confirmation to finally admit the truth aloud. Her face was shining when she returned as droplets of rain trickled off her hair. She grinned as she shakily walked into the house, momentarily grabbing onto the back of the sofa to support herself. _He_ pulled her forward and forced her to sit on the couch before she fell and split her precious head open.

"Erik," she said, staring up at him. "Erik! It happened. We're going to have a…." He grunted and stiffly sat down. "Are you okay?"

"Yes. You are the one who cannot walk."

"Oh. I'm just so….We're going to be fine," she assured him. A tissue was bunched up in her hand, and she quickly used it to wipe her eyes. "We'll be okay. It'll be wonderful." There was a pleading note in her voice; she wanted him to agree.

"We will…be…." She intently stared at him, waiting for him to finish the sentence. "We will survive." He paused. "Will you know what it looks like before it…emerges?"

"We'll have some idea."

"Be sure it has a face," he ordered. "It must have a face. And a nose. And four limbs. It must not be defective."

"Our baby will be beautiful," she murmured, dabbing at her eyes again.

"Your idea of _beautiful _might be called into question, considering what you married." He dryly chuckled, trying to ignore the fear building in his chest. "Perhaps someone should give you a second opinion."

To his shock, she lunged forward and hugged him, nearly squeezing the oxygen out of his body. "I'm so happy!" she exclaimed. "I would have been okay if it had never happened. But I'm happy that it did! And I just…I think that we'll be fine…and…and happy…."

"You should be very happy," he agreed, letting a hand rest in her hair. "And now you are." And _he_ had made her happy…. At least he was capable of giving her this.

She drew back and looked at him with warier eyes. "You're not going to go hide in the basement now, right?"

"I had no plans to do so." Although it did sound rather appealing now that she mentioned it….

"I'll cook us a big dinner. With salads and rolls and dessert and everything."

"No," he stated. "You will sit on this couch so that you do not die. This all had better not kill you. Otherwise, whoever decides to visit our house next will find three corpses in the basement."

She shuddered. Her furrowed brow was evidence that his comment had gone a bit too far. "Erik, that's terrible. Our baby is not going to kill me. I'll be fine. We'll all be fine."

"All the same. Sit. I will order one of those adolescent boys to deliver food here. Sit."

"Fine. But I'm making breakfast in the morning."

"Only if you do not walk as though you are inebriated."

She released a loud sigh, but he ignored her. After he returned from ordering the food and resumed his place on the couch, she curled up beside him. He kissed the top of her head. Despite his dread, he felt no resentment. All he had ever been able to do was love her.

She could take care of the _other_. And _he_ would take care of his Christine. And perhaps, that way, _everyone _would come out of this alive.


	22. Chapter 22

Hello, guys. Here is a somewhat anticipated chapter. I read all the reviews and took everything into consideration. For the most part, I aimed for realism.

Anyway, I hope you all enjoy it. Thank you as always for your words of support.

**Read and Review!!!**

After a hiatus, he began to compose again. Now that Christine was in a state of delight, it was easier for him to concentrate on music. They would also need the income, he supposed. Although he never asked for details, she always assured him that he made more than enough. If he thought too hard about the fact that he was earning an 'honest living' under society's rules—well…he still became annoyed.

He never accompanied her to the appointments. It would have been unpleasant to watch some physician poke and prod _his_ wife. And considering all the sharp, gleaming tools in doctors' offices…it simply would have been unwise for him to go.

True to her word, she did not talk about _it_ often. She might sit cross-legged and smile with her arms wrapped around her stomach. Sometimes she purchased magazines with grinning infants on the front. But she did not endlessly jabber on about the _other_.

Of course, Christine could not keep silent about it forever. After one appointment, she came home, sat on the couch, and slowly scooted closer him. She stared at the side of his head, waiting for him to acknowledge her. _Why on earth did she not simply say what she wanted?_

He looked at her. "Yes?"

"The doctor said I should eat more." She bit her lip.

"Perhaps you should," he agreed.

Christine fidgeted.

"What else is wrong?" The _other_ had better not be harming her.

"Well…I know you don't really…care that much, but I know what our baby is going to be."

"It is human," he stated. "We verified that."

She gave a short laugh. "No. I mean, it is. I mean, she is. But I mean, we're going to have a girl."

He paused to let this information sink into his mind. _A female._ What did that mean? He would not have to share Christine with another male; that was a relief. On the other hand, a female would be more likely to fear him and make irritating squealing noises. Still, he preferred a female invading his space over a male. Yes, this was positive news. He summed up his feelings in one syllable. "Good."

It was enough to make her eyes light up. "I thought so, too!" she exclaimed. "I think a girl is perfect!" She hugged him. He was unable to share her enthusiasm. At the same time, he was not near the point of losing his mind. Apathy had begun to descend on him when it came to the matter of a child. He thought of the _other _as a gift for Christine—like a new dress or piece of jewelry or some other object she'd enjoy. And he felt pride in being able to give her such a present.

Christine bought various pink and yellow items, along with a crib and white chest of drawers. She spent hours arranging all the objects in the spare bedroom before devoting an entire day to putting up rabbit-covered wallpaper. Even if she had bankrupted them, though, he would not have scolded her over the expenditures. _He_ might have insisted on threatening their creditors or embarking on a robbery spree, but he would not have chastised his sweet wife. Fortunately, Christine managed their money well.

For the next few months, they went through their lives without too much difficulty. She became sick on occasion, and he would grow angry at the _other_ for harming her. For the most part, though, she was simply happy--and rather emotional at times.

"You're so wonderful," she would murmur in the evenings, leaning against him as they watched television. Tears formed in her eyes.

"You are very odd to think so," he would reply with awkward humor. "Perhaps you are tired. Or mad. Likely both."

As the other's physical presence began to show, he became nervous. _It_ was there; the fact couldn't be denied now. He became fearful of going near the growing bump. What if _he_ somehow squished its head and killed it? Christine would become very upset with him.

To circumvent that predicament, he avoided putting his hands near her middle, supporting himself with her shoulders when he wished to kiss her. He also could not embrace her torso and so attempted to hug her neck instead.

That did not go so well….

"Erik." She coughed and drew back as he released her. "You kind of strangled me." Christine rubbed the back of her neck and swallowed.

After that, he decided that holding her hand was the safest form of affection. At least he would only have to deal with this for a few more months….

He also fretted that the creature put too much strain on his wife's small body, taking it over like a parasitic tapeworm. One night, after Christine was asleep, he leaned down and whispered, "You had better not harm her. Or I will squish you." He sat and glared at her stomach, waiting for a response. Of course, none came.

Toward the end of the affair, Christine began to take some sort of class on Tuesday nights; he never asked for the details. One evening, someone called, and she spoke in an enthusiastic voice over the telephone. "Yep. I'll be there. I can pick you up." A pause. "I know. It's getting so close. I'm nervous, too. All right. See ya!"

"Who was that?" he asked after she hung up.

"A girl from class. Holly."

"What does she want?" _He_ was always wary of other people entering their lives, more for reasons of privacy than jealousy.

"We partner up in the class."

"Partner up?"

"Yeah." She hesitated. "Most of the girls have husbands or boyfriends with them. But Holly is a single mother, so we work together."

He scowled. "But you _have_ a husband."

"Yes, Erik. I have a wonderful husband. But you don't want to go to this class…."

"I do not," he agreed, suddenly wishing to escape the conversation.

She laughed. "Well, then it all works out."

"Yes." He grunted. "Go with…the…Holly."

Christine kissed the top of his head and left.

"A narrow escape for Erik," _he_ informed Cordie as she took a seat beside him and purred. "I will be fortunate to come out of this alive."

To his relief, though, Christine was sane enough to form a plan that would ensure his survival. As the deadly date neared, she began to scribble in a notebook, organizing every last detail. Lying in bed, he warily watched her as she worked. It had been some time since he had done more than give her a kiss on the temple or stroke her hair. A despondent feeling settled over him, squeezing his heart and stomach.

"You will not die, right?" he asked.

She glanced up from her notebook, her eyes tired. "No, Erik. I'll be fine. Medical care is great now." Christine glanced at her notes again. "When it happens, I have several emergency contacts that can drive me to the hospital. I should be able to call them. If not…do you think…you could call them?"

"What am I supposed to say?"

"Just tell them that it's time. Try not to…try to be calm. Um…there's Mrs. Johnston who lives down the block; her kids are grown so she won't have to leave them. And Ginger Huddleston behind us. Then there's the Huang family; Mai was so eager to help. She even knitted a little pink winter hat. But use them as the last resort because I don't know them as well. If no one is there, we'll call a taxi or…or ambulance depending on how serious it is." She took a deep breath. "All right?"

"You will not die?"

"No, Erik. I _promise_ I won't die."

"You had better not."

Her optimism seemed to fade in that last month. Christine would often sit on the sofa or at the kitchen table, staring out the window at nothing.

Dread filled him. He had given her what she most wished for; his body was not entirely defective. When she was ill or tired, he tended to her. He had permitted her to make purchases and go to classes and do whatever she wished as far as the _other_ was concerned. And he had gone to great lengths to avoid crushing or suffocating _it_. What else was there? He nearly wanted to scream at her: _What do you want of Erik?!_

But, of course, that would have only made her cry.

Finally, the morning came—an inappropriately (or appropriately?) bright, sunny morning.

Rolling out of bed with wide eyes, Christine grabbed the cordless phone on the nightstand, a small gasp escaping her lips. The first person she called was not home, and she sighed in frustration. The second person was also unavailable. Justin McKenzie was home, though. Judging by the relief in her voice, he agreed to take her. "Oh, thank you. Thank you. Thank you."

Frozen in terror, _he _could only watch as she unsteadily grabbed a packed suitcase and threw on a grey sweatsuit. An irrational part of him considered grabbing her and taking her to the basement; she might be safest in the dark with him.

The rational part of his mind won, though, as it often had throughout the later years. He knew she had to leave. This was all far beyond him--something he could not handle nor understand. It was one of the times when Christine belonged with the rest of humanity. The best he could do was assist her in walking to the front door.

"Will McKenzie be there the entire time?" he asked, a tinge of jealousy still creeping into his mind despite the panic.

"No," she replied, taking a deep breath. "I really don't think he wants to be there for that." Her laugh turned into another gasp. "He's just going to take me to the emergency room. I'll take a… taxi home."

"Good." Fear still gripped his mind as Justin McKenzie arrived within two minutes to take her away. "If anything happens to her, I will kill you," _he_ said as the handsome man led Christine out the door.

McKenzie blinked. "Heh, heh. Yeah. We'll be fine." He paused in his steps. "Wait. Are you coming?"

_He_ stood there with his hands clenched at his sides, unable to move or say anything. And to his great shame, Christine answered for him. "No. Erik is…he…he needs to look after our cat. He's going to stay home." She gasped. "Let's go. We can take my car, if you want. Your car is too nice."

McKenzie blinked again. "All right." They rushed away without a glance backward, and the car sped off with a sharp squeal.

And so _he_ was left there by himself. He had anticipated this moment and, along with Christine, thought it would be best this way. This was not something he could handle—doctors, nurses, hospitals, screaming, his wife's blood, the _other_….

Someone would end up dead.

The silence was almost eerie. _He _fell onto the couch and stared at the wall. Somewhere Christine was suffering, and he could do nothing.

But Christine would be better off without him at this particular moment.

He could do nothing.

_Christine would be better off without him…._

When he heard the car two hours later, _he_ jumped up and nearly ripped the blinds off the window. McKenzie stepped out of the vehicle and lit a cigarette. He then rubbed his temples, an irritatingly vague expression on his unshaven face as he sauntered toward the condominium.

With a snarl, _he _stepped outside, keeping beneath the porch roof to avoid the sunlight. "Well?" he asked. "What have you done with my wife?"

The normally composed man jumped and then squinted. "Oh. Erik. You startled me. I was just about to knock on your door."

_And I am about to knock a brick into your head. _"What did you do with my wife?" h_e_ growled.

"I took her to the hospital and made sure she got a room okay. They said it might not…err…happen for hours, but they're sure it's about that time. She had good timing. Everything is fine."

He continued to glare, feeling entirely out of control. "She is alive?"

"…Yes. She's fine."

"She had better be." Breathing heavily, _he_ started to turn around and go back inside.

"Erik?"

_He _twitched, not liking the sound of his first name on Justin McKenzie's tongue. Only Christine said _his_ name properly. "What?"

"You should go see her. I would have stayed, but it didn't seem right." He chuckled. "Well…hey, yeah…you're going to be a father, huh? That's…congrats, man! Go see her. Hell, I'll take care of your cat."

Something dark burned within him. No one, save Christine, ever gave him orders_. Ever._ And even his sweet wife did it in the subtlest of ways. How dare this attractive, arrogant idiot give _him_ orders concerning _his_ wife?

"You will stay out of my affairs!" he snapped. With several steps, _he_ was standing in broad daylight, cornering Justin McKenzie up against the side of the condominium.

Shocked, Mr. McKenzie dropped his cigarette and drew back, his mouth widening into an "o." "Jesus. Calm down, Erik. I didn't mean anything by it."

"If you give me one more order, I will snap your neck."

"All right. All right." Mr. McKenzie held up his open hands in surrender, pressing himself against the wall. "I'm sorry."

Realizing the situation had progressed to an unnecessarily dangerous point, _he _quickly drew back and darted into his home. He locked the door behind him, horrified at himself. The anger quickly morphed into devastation. He did not know what to do, but murder was not the answer to this problem.

There was no damned solution.

Or perhaps he feared the solution.

When the phone did not ring by mid-afternoon, dread began to sink in again. Despite the fact that the sun would not set for several more hours, he knew what must be done. And it had nothing to do with Justin McKenzie. _Idiot._

After putting on his realistic mask, a wide-brimmed black hat, and a pair of flesh-colored gloves—he called a taxi.

* * *

She was not disappointed. She had not overestimated her joy. As Christine held her baby for the first time, she was utterly enamored. The nurses nearly had to pry the infant out of her arms.

When the doctor asked her name, Christine had paused. She'd considered this for some time, never daring to ask Erik's opinion. His answer would have surely been, 'You decide.'

"Eva," she finally answered. It was simple and definite—elegant but not gaudy. "Eva Paige."

The doctor wrote it down. "Eva Paige Ackart," he repeated. "_E. P. A._ Maybe she'll grow up to be an environmentalist." He chuckled at his own joke, but Christine barely heard him.

Eva screamed upon entering the world, calming after she'd rested in her mother's arms for a few moments. Christine gazed down at her daughter, stroking her soft cheek with an index finger. The infant's mouth and chin were from the Daae side of the family. Christine couldn't tell where Eva had gotten her nose. But her dark eyes--Christine recognized them from the photograph of Madeleine. Her hair was also a darker brown.

A nurse smiled at them both, and Christine felt a sense of peace. Her baby would be loved. Everything that Erik had been denied, Eva would have. And Eva's children would have. And their children would have. For a moment, Christine felt as though everything could be made right.

But after the nurses had taken Eva, Christine was alone again, missing Erik and her baby at the same time.

Erik. He'd barely been able to touch her throughout the last months. As ridiculous as it seemed, Christine wondered if it was because she'd gotten…bigger. Of all the people in the world, she'd never expected Erik to be shallow about physical appearances. But maybe Erik was capable of being just as superficial as any other man.

Tears gathered in her eyes and clogged her throat as she dwelt on it. She loved and needed him. She could take care of all Eva's needs as long as Erik was at least standing by her. But with the way he'd been acting over the last months, Christine was sometimes afraid he'd disappear.

_And how dare he? How dare he draw her into isolation, without relatives and close friends, only to abandon her now? _

_No. Stop being a baby; you're a mother. _Every decision had been hers from the beginning. She was not a victim of circumstances outside her control. And, even now, she didn't regret any of it. Resting her cheek on the sterile pillow, Christine lay there without any more answers. When she was able, she would take her precious baby girl and leave the hospital. And then….

And then.

Christine drifted off to sleep, her dreams nothing but a swirl of sounds and colors. Noise in the hallway finally awoke her, and she slowly opened her eyes. A blurred form sitting in the leather armchair at the side of her bed startled her fully awake. Save for his eyes, he was covered from head to toe. But he was there, watching her in silence.

"You came!" she hoarsely exclaimed, attempting to sit up. "You came. You came."

Erik studied her. "You do not look well."

"I'm fine. Just…I'll be fine." She reached out a hand to him, fearing he would suddenly disappear.

He rose from the chair and slowly took it, eyeing her. "It is gone now?"

"What?"

"It is not inside you now?"

"No," she replied. "I…." Before she could finish her sentence, Erik embraced her. Given her position in the bed, the hug was awkward, but it was still more affection than she'd received from him in months. When he drew back, she stared up at him in confusion. "Were you…afraid of her?"

"Of course not. I simply did not wish to crush it; that would have made you unhappy. You would have cried for weeks if Erik did such a thing."

"So that was why…." Her head fell back onto the pillow. Because Erik was usually blunt about what he was thinking, they'd managed not to have too many misunderstandings. She'd simply been too hurt to ask Erik why he was avoiding her.

"How long will you stay here?" he asked. "I dislike it. This room is like a sanitary version of prison."

"I can go home tomorrow. But…." She bit her lip. "The entire thing was a little…rough." She'd spare Erik the details of Eva's birth. "I may need to be in bed for about a week."

His shoulders tensed. "But you will be better?"

"Yes. Very soon." She smiled. "We may just have to eat a lot of delivery for awhile."

"Idiot adolescent boys at our door every evening? Delightful."

She giggled, glad to hear a touch of humor in his sarcasm. Christine paused. She was trying to resist telling Erik about their daughter, but it was nearly impossible to hold back. "She's so beautiful, Erik. I named her Eva. Her eyes are big and dark; she must get them from your side. And she's…just wonderful."

"Mm."

Christine's heart stung at his response. But at least he was here with her; he'd even come during the daytime to see her. She squeezed his hand, noticing its warmth and then realizing he was wearing gloves. They were peach-colored, and he only donned them when it was inevitable than someone else would see him. The last time he'd worn them was at her final performance.

"I love you," she said.

"I love you as well," he softly replied.

After remaining with her for fifteen more minutes, Erik left that evening, vowing to accompany her home in the morning. Soon afterwards, one of the nurses brought Eva back up to her. With Erik's promise and her baby in her arms, Christine felt at peace again. Even if everything wasn't exactly perfect--would it ever be?--she was not alone.

The following day, Erik came to get her in an upscale taxi, wearing the same ensemble as the day before. He stayed near to her side, helping her out of the wheelchair and ensuring she was comfortable in the spacious backseat. He never glanced at Eva. Christine adjusted the light-weight safety seat to the side of her and stared down with a smile. Eva stared back without crying, seeming to know that she was safe.

The ride back home was quiet. Erik kept an eye on the cabdriver, always disliking it when someone else had too much control over a situation. Christine yawned and blinked her heavy eyelids as they arrived home, already exhausted from the drive.

After entering the condominium and placing her daughter by the bedside, she climbed beneath the covers. When Eva started wailing, Christine stood and lifted her out of the carrier before crawling back into bed. In a surreal haze, she held her baby against her chest. She and Erik had existed in their own little world for so long that it was almost shocking to welcome another human being into their lives.

Erik brought her a cup of tea, continuing to keep his eyes away from Eva. He stayed close for the rest of the day, acting more like a bodyguard than a new father.

Near evening, Christine gently said, "Tonight, I can stay with her in the nursery. Or I can keep her in here. It's up to you. But it's hard for me to get up and down too much. Maybe in a week or two…."

"I want my wife in here," he stated without hesitation.

"Even with Eva?"

"I want my wife here. This is your bed, and you belong with Erik."

"She might keep you awake."

"I would not sleep without you anyway," he replied, leaving the room to order dinner.

So Christine stayed in bed and kept Eva in her arms for most of the night, grabbing at least a few hours of sleep. Erik remained silent beside her.

In some ways, she was relieved that Erik hadn't lost his mind over this. He wasn't angry or hostile. In fact, he was functional, calmly doing what was necessary to make sure there was food in the house. At the same time, he refused to accept that Eva was also his.

It was this middle ground that made Christine uncomfortable.

If Erik had raged and complained and fretted, she would have been able to comfort him. Christine had been planning speeches for months. _Breathe, Erik. It's okay. She'll stop crying one day. Don't worry. We'll get through this. We'll be fine. _

Of course, if he'd miraculously fallen in love with his daughter, she would have been thrilled.

But this middle ground…this calm, practical apathy toward his child--Christine wasn't sure how to handle it.

Her only moment of hope came later that week when she finally caught Erik staring at Eva with a blank expression. He stood at a distance from the crib, his arms crossed and his head tilted. After another moment, he turned around and left the room.

At least he'd looked at her. Christine had a feeling that the next year would give a whole new meaning to the phrase 'baby steps.'

With a sigh, she walked to the crib and looked down at her daughter. Even if Eva didn't have Erik's deformities, she could still end up with her share of psychological scars. The realization made Christine's heart heavy. "As soon as you can understand, I'll start explaining him to you," she whispered.

Erik's voice echoed out from the kitchen; he was ordering dinner. "Yes. You will bring that food to my house within thirty minutes. I will not tolerate lateness. If you are not here in thirty minutes, then you will not come at all."

Christine laughed to herself. Her smile faded as she continued speaking to Eva. "And you'll know, you _have _to know, that the way he acts toward you is never your fault. When he's angry, it's not because of you. Please know that. And know that I love you."


	23. Chapter 23

Hi, everyone! Sorry it took so long to update. We're nearing the last vignettes although I can't say with certainty how many are left. These characters tend to choose their own paths :)

Thank you as always for your comments. Thanks to _MadLizzy_ for editing.

**Read and Review!!!**

Christine was more dependent on Erik than she had ever been during their married lives. Especially after Eva's birth, she was more lethargic and achy, often wanting to spend part of the day in bed.

Thankfully, Erik didn't seem to mind ordering food and becoming the sole provider. He composed and sent in his works without her prodding. And he continued to let Eva stay in their bedroom when it was necessary.

The stress from the changes did eventually cause him to have a breakdown one night. "It will not stop making noise," he complained as Eva wailed from her nursery. He placed both hands against his head, eyes glowing brightly. "Why will it not be quiet? Is it sick or dying? You must tell it to be quiet or Erik will make it be quiet. Erik must…fix it…."

Christine had squeezed his hand and kissed the top of his head. "Let me go calm her down."

"You are leaving?" he asked, his eyes not entirely lucid.

"I'll be right back. I promise." She threw the covers off of her and walked to the nursery. After lifting Eva from her crib and bringing her into the bed, Christine repositioned herself. With a calmed Eva in one arm and Erik in the other, she managed to keep everyone sane that evening. Outside of these rare moments, though, Erik's mind held together.

Christine had wondered if she was going to have an aloof baby--one with unique capabilities who disliked too much interaction. So far, that wasn't the case. Eva liked to be stimulated and cuddled. She would cry if she went too long without being held. In public, she loved to watch people. Women sometimes gushed over her, and men gave her passing smiles.

Maybe that was the main reason that Eva soon enjoyed watching Erik most of all. He was the one person who ignored her.

Erik first realized that she'd taken interest in him about three months after her birth. His head suddenly jerked in Eva's direction. Noticing that she was watching him, he reached for his mask as though aware for the first time that she was a human being with eyes.

"Don't!" Christine nearly shouted. Startled, Erik turned to stare at her, the mask still dangling from his fingers. "Don't put the mask on," Christine said in a softer voice.

Eva could be the one person in the entire world who would never fear or cringe at Erik's face. She would grow up with it. And Christine didn't want anything to destroy that possibility.

"She stared," Erik stated with disdain.

"She's just watching you." Eva had already closed her eyes and gone to sleep. "See. She doesn't care."

Erik set the mask back down. "Someday she will wonder why…why the individual who provided half of her genetic material is so very ugly."

Christine blinked, noticing how much effort he put into not using the word 'father.' "I'll tell her that your face is different," she said. "But that it's not better or worse than anyone else's face."

Erik groaned and slammed his head onto the pillow. "Allow me to know when you plan on having that inane conversation; I will be in the basement. Or perhaps in another country."

Christine stood up and put Eva to bed, wanting at least a few hours alone with Erik that night. She was also feeling stronger—more able to get up and down. Crawling back into bed, she scooted closer to him. "Are you okay?" she asked.

"I am perfectly fine." He turned to face her, which was always a good sign.

"Thank you for everything," she whispered. "I know it hasn't been easy. But you…you've helped keep us going."

"Erik must keep everyone alive," he replied. "If he cannot do that, then he has failed. Death is easy. Keeping people alive is rather difficult."

"Sometimes it is," she murmured, scooting into his arms. "But it's always worth it." He didn't argue with her last statement. Of course, Eva started crying again at one o'clock in the morning, but they did get some time together.

After awhile, Erik started escaping to the basement if Eva cried for too long. Not wanting to risk his sanity, Christine decided to implement one of her plans.

She called Mrs. Johnston and referenced a conversation they had several months ago. Mrs. Johnston eagerly agreed to watch Eva for two hours every other day at a low price. Her kids were grown but didn't have children of their own; she was suffering from empty nest syndrome.

On the first day of the arrangement, Christine went to Mrs. Johnston's house with a bag full of bottles, diapers, and other baby necessities. Somewhat reluctantly, she handed Eva over as well, giving Mrs. Johnston careful instructions.

"We'll be just fine," said Mrs. Johnston. "I've been dying for some grandchildren, but all my kids want to do is work, work, work. They're going to work themselves to death, I think."

"Heh." Christine nervously stared at her baby. "Well, if she gets really fussy, just give me a call. I'll be right over. Don't be afraid to call."

"I'm sure she'll be fine." Mrs. Johnston turned her attention to Eva. "Won't we be just fine? Yes, we will." She proceeded to make baby noises.

Eva stared at her and blinked but didn't seem disturbed.

Christine finally returned home, feeling worried now that she was without her precious baby for the first time. Erik was watching through the blinds, his eyes narrowed. "She must bring the infant back," he grimly stated as Christine walked inside. "It is yours--not hers. She can acquire her own."

"She will," Christine replied with a laugh. "I just thought you needed a break."

He was tense for a few moments, and Christine was surprised that Erik seemed to care that his daughter was gone. It gave her hope.

"If she does not bring it back, we will retrieve it." He settled down. Placing her hand at the back of his head, she pulled him toward her for a kiss. Erik returned the affection, pulled back, and then said, "Yes. It is quiet now. Perhaps the neighbor woman should borrow the infant now and then."

By this time, Christine was used to his strange attitude toward Eva. As long as Erik was sane and holding everything else together, though, she felt strong enough to be the single parent. After all, lots of women were single mothers. In fact, she felt much luckier than them because she was a single mother with a husband who loved her.

Or maybe that meant she wasn't really a single mother. Eva just had one parent. Kind of.

It was a little confusing. And sometimes sad.

Erik continued to kiss her face and neck, and she turned her attention back to him. It was good to receive physical affection again, and she loved how he was looking at her and touching her. _Her_ Erik. She couldn't resent him; Eva had been her responsibility from the beginning.

Eventually, Christine would find a way to explain it all to her daughter.

* * *

After leaving the hospital, Christine appeared frailer than she had since London. While _he _was thankful that he could get close to her again, he also feared for her health. Even her mental state was a bit…uneven.

Several nights after leaving the hospital, she sat up and exclaimed, "You left! Erik! You left me!"

He had been asleep and nearly bolted up from the bed; her screams always produced an adrenaline rush that prepared him to fight.

Christine was still half-asleep as she stared at him; perspiration coated her forehead. Realizing it was only a nightmare, he had gently touched her arm. "I did not," he finally replied. He could have responded, 'But you did leave for three days.' He had no desire to hurt her at that point, though.

She'd settled back down, and he'd held her until the infant fully awoke her. Christine never gave any sign of remembering that night.

After a few weeks, both her physical and mental state improved. Still, for the first time ever, he actually felt as though she needed _him_. When she had awoken to find him at the hospital, he had seen the desperation in her eyes. He had always been the one to need her, but now there was a mutual dependence. The new responsibility was both terrifying and relieving.

As far as the infant went, he attempted to avoid direct interaction. He ensured that it was breathing every morning; the infant was important to Christine's happiness and needed to stay alive. Outside of keeping it living, he kept his distance.

For one thing, it was loud. And it sometimes smelled. And it took Christine's attention. And…it had his mother's eyes. After over thirty years, his mother's eyes were staring at him again. At least the gaze held no contempt or shame or disdain—for now.

On the positive side, the infant kept Christine home and close. She only left the house to go to appointments or to shop. And anything that kept Christine nearer was good for _him_.

He became slightly alarmed when Christine hired the neighbor woman to watch the infant for several hours each week. It took control from him. What if the woman somehow killed it or ran off with it? Christine would become upset.

Once the infant was gone that first afternoon, though, Christine cuddled up beside him. He was thankful for the lack of noise. And now his wife would not be bothered with that incessant screaming.

"You meticulously planned every detail," he stated after kissing her.

"I had to," she said, briefly glancing downward. "I wanted a baby. I didn't want to ruin your life."

He paused before softly answering, "You could not ruin anything."

"I…." She tapered off, obviously unsure of how to respond. "I'm glad you're okay." The muscles in her face relaxed.

Perhaps her discomfort was partly his fault. There had been days when he'd spoken harsh words to her because of his irritation over the infant. His wife did not understand that his current annoyance could not compare to true misery. That raw despair and rage he'd experienced before meeting Christine had become more of a distant memory—the only brief reminder occurring when she left for those three days.

He simply said, "Erik is fine. And Erik's wife is fine."

She hummed in agreement. They spent the afternoon together, and he was more certain that his former misery would remain a distant memory.

Still…it was complicated keeping Christine very close and the infant at a distance. As long as Christine's plans weren't knocked off course, all was fine. But even his wife could not predict everything. And he could not control everything.

After leaving the infant with the neighbor several weeks later, Christine went to the grocery store. He was content at home browsing over the computer for musical equipment. He'd allowed some electronics into his composing so long as they did not interfere with his muse. Several years ago, during one intense piece, he'd accidentally smashed a three hundred dollar keyboard. Christine had not appreciated that.

While he was lost in his thoughts, there were three knocks at the front door. With a growl, he threw on his mask and peeled back the blinds. Mrs. Johnston stood on the porch with the infant carrier in one hand, a small frown on her wrinkled face.

He became tense as she knocked again, louder this time. _How dare she come now?_ She was supposed to watch the infant for another hour. Again, the woman banged her fist on the door. He finally opened it and glared at her for ruining Christine's carefully designed system.

She blinked three times and took a step backward. It took her several moments to speak. "Oh…oh…are…are you Mr. Ackart? Christine's husband? I bet I have the wrong address. I'm so flustered that I—"

"I am Mr. Ackart," he impatiently interrupted. "My wife is not home now. She will come to you in one hour to retrieve the child." He started to shut the door.

"No." She stuck out her free hand to hold the door open. "I…I mean, my daughter just called, and her car broke down on one of the back roads. I need to go help her before it starts raining." She glanced at the cloudy sky and then lifted up the carrier toward him. "I was bringing your daughter back."

"You cannot. Christine is not here."

"But Christine didn't answer her cell phone. And I can't take your daughter while I go help mine. I might be gone for hours. If you could just take Eva, I need to go. Tell Christine I'm sorry. It was an emergency. She doesn't have to pay me for today."

He stared at her, wanting to slam the door closed and run to the basement. "You are supposed to keep the infant for another hour."

"Mr. Ackart," she pathetically pled. "I have to go. I'm worried about _my_ daughter. Please." She thrust the carrier out toward him. "Please take Eva."

He took the handle of the carrier with a trembling hand, heart racing in panic. "My wife will never visit you again!" he spat, heightening himself. "This is unacceptable!"

Mrs. Johnston took another step backwards, eyes widening. "I'm sorry," she stuttered. "But…but I have to go. I'm sorry." She ran back to her car, jumping in and speeding away as rain began to pound against the pavement.

_He_ stared down at the infant in terror. Closing the door to the home, he set the carrier on the carpet, waiting for the child to do something disastrous. It did not take long. The infant squirmed and began to make squealing noises. He tore the telephone receiver from the holder and dialed Christine's cellular phone. Thankfully, she answered after two rings. "Erik?"

"You must come home immediately!" he rasped.

"Why?" she asked, the pitch of her voice rising. "What's wrong?"

"The idiot neighbor woman brought the infant back early. And now it is here! And she is gone."

"Is Eva okay? Is she sick?"

"No! The woman simply left her here for no good reason. And you did not answer your phone when she called you! Get home now."

"I must have been driving and not heard it." He heard her take a deep breath. "Okay, Erik. Calm down. It's going to be fine. What is Eva doing now?"

"Making noise. I am going to the basement."

"No. Please don't do that. She's probably uncomfortable in that seat; it's kind of hot and sticky. Can you lift her out and put her in the crib?"

"No."

"Erik, please," she begged. "If you can do that, I'll take care of everything else when I get home."

"This is wretched," he declared. "It should not be this way. This should not happen. This is not Erik's responsibility." The loud noise was beginning to blur his vision.

"I know. I'm sorry. I'll try to make sure it doesn't happen again. But please, please, please do this for me. I'll get home as soon as I can. Just make her comfortable. And then the noise will stop."

_He _grunted and set the phone down. Anything that stopped the horrific sound would be welcome. Pulling the carrier up by the handle, he held it over the infant's crib and clicked open the buckles. He tilted it to the side slightly. With the tips of his bony fingers, he managed to scoot the infant out of the carrier and into the crib. It softly landed on its back and stared up at him.

"I did as you requested, and it is still making noise," he said after picking up the phone.

"That's fine." Relief filled her voice. "Thank you, Erik. As long as she's in the crib, I'll take care of everything when I get home."

"But it is making noise. I am going to the basement now."

"Could you at least leave the door open?"

"You will come home. _Now._ And you will not ever leave when that woman has the infant. She cannot be trusted. And Erik is suffering for it." _He_ practically slammed down the phone as it continued to cry.

"You will stop it!" he exclaimed, looming over the crib. "You will be silent!"

The infant was momentarily quiet, staring up at him with a scrunched up face and wide eyes. Shaking, it then began to scream even louder.

_Excellent._ The infant already feared him like any good girl should. As soon as it could walk, it would start running away.

"Silence!" he again hollered at it.

And the infant screamed even louder back at him.

And then he screamed at it.

This went on for several moments—a shouting match from Hell.

_He _gripped the wooden edges of the crib as red flashed in his vision. _Was he going to have to gag it? _

Then, he suddenly remembered how he could make it be quiet without injuring it. How stupid of him not to recall his little talent!

"You will be silent now," he stated, this time in his most pleasant, mesmerizing voice. "Silent."

The infant finally stopped crying and dreamily gazed up at him. Predictably, it enjoyed his voice. "Yes, you will be quiet now," he continued. "You will leave Erik alone until your mother figure returns and tends to you."

The infant sighed as its eyes started to droop.

"Silent," he continued to murmur in a singsong voice. "Yes. That is right. Silent."

Soon, it was asleep.

Content, _he_ returned to the living room. The task was done, and he had not even used his most dangerous (non-lethal) weapon—a song. Perhaps that would come in handy on another day.

He settled on the couch to work, utterly pleased with himself. Christine came running through the door less than ten minutes later. She threw two grocery bags on the floor and dashed into the nursery. "Oh. Good! She's asleep. I was afraid she'd be upset."

"No," he replied. "It is fine. All is well."

After remaining in the nursery another moment, Christine walked back into the living room. Her lips were pursed as she looked down at him. "How long did it take Eva to fall asleep?"

"Minutes, perhaps." He shifted, wondering if perhaps Christine might be…upset by his actions.

"That's strange. It usually takes me an hour to get her to sleep in the afternoon. I always have to feed her first."

He shrugged. "Perhaps you do not bore the child as I do."

"But she's fascinated by you. I can never get her to sleep when you're around."

"Hm."

Christine crossed her arms. "Did you...what did you do?"

"I put it to sleep."

"And how did you…you used your voice, didn't you? Oh, Erik."

"Yes. And it was extremely effective." He paused as his wife's eyes narrowed. "Are you angry with Erik?"

"I…don't know." Christine stared at the rug and nibbled on her bottom lip.

"The infant is uninjured and silent. All is well, my wife."

"Yes. But…." She sighed, and it took her nearly five minutes to dwell on it. Finally, Christine glanced up and said, "Maybe if you need to put her to sleep, like today when it was kind of an emergency, it's fine. But…but don't do it too much. And don't use your voice to do make her do things. Please don't use it to control her."

"Why? We could have the child cleaning the house, making dinner, and using the bathroom in no time." He enjoyed the expression on Christine's face.

"Erik!"

"I will not manipulate the child's mind," he assured her. "It is merely…like a strong lullaby." Christine continued to frown in thought. "Sit down and rest. Calm down. Put your feet up." He used the _voice_ on her, and she instantly obeyed. Christine was very capable of resisting his voice when consciously aware of it. As her mind was in another place, though, she was more vulnerable to his commands.

She blinked up at him from her new position, realized what he'd done, and then half-glared. "Like that. See!"

"Erik will only use it as a last resort," he stated. "How is that?"

"Someday Eva is going to be able to talk," Christine muttered. "And then she'll let me know everything you do when I'm gone."

He scoffed. "No. You will always take her…_it_ with you. And it cannot come into Erik's basement."

The infant awoke and began to make noises again. Christine slyly smiled as she stood and made her way to the nursery. "She'll find a way in."

"I will install a little alarm down there so that I am aware of any intruders."

Christine was cooing to the infant and didn't reply. He would get his revenge later. Perhaps he would appear behind her and grab her around the waist, thereby making his wife scream. She hated that.

The panic and fear of earlier had completely faded during their banter. Christine was home, and all was well. With careful planning, such an event would never happen again.

Christine called Mrs. Johnston and gently requested that she leave the infant with another neighbor if that ever happened again. "My husband is ill," she explained. "He can't really take care of the baby."

Perhaps _he_ should have been offended that Christine referred to him as 'ill,' but he was not. This was all part of the situation. He took care of Christine, and Christine cared for the other.

A week or so later, Christine carried the infant into the living room, holding it against her shoulder. As usual, the child turned its head and stared at him as Christine directed her attention to the television. He continued to wish that it did not have Madeleine's eyes. He was constantly reminded of his mother.

His timid, angry, shamed, disappointed mother.

There was nothing remarkable about that evening. Nothing unusual had happened during the day, and all was smooth with Christine. There was no reason for the sudden realization that entered his mind at that moment.

It was a sharp thought—as though a neuron had nearly exploded with the revelation. The thought was so disturbing that his mind nearly repressed it. He did not want to consider it.

He excused himself and ran to the basement. Christine didn't say anything; she was used to him dashing down there whenever his muse was active. This had nothing to do with music, though. He bypassed his instruments and fell onto the couch as the epiphany continued to mock him.

He had very few good memories of his mother. She was not the cause of his mind's destruction; _Falcon_ easily won that prize. But Madeleine _was_ the first person to teach him that he was not welcome in the world. Perhaps she was even the first small crack in his sanity.

_What if Eva…?_

But Madeleine had desired a child! Her disappointment was her own damned fault; no one had ever promised her beautiful children. In contrast, he had not wanted offspring. Eva was Christine's—not his. He had absolutely no responsibility! Christine even said so!

And Madeleine had the potential to be a decent mother. Her bucolic, religious, wealthy upbringing was nearly ideal.

And _him_? He had no absolutely no potential. What kind of father was a deformed, reclusive, criminal-in-hiding supposed to be? When mothers saw him walking down the street, they grabbed their children and ran. The infant was better off if he stayed away from it. Wasn't it?

And Eva would at least have a perfect mother to look fondly back on—a vast improvement over the vague relationship _he'd_ had with Nadir.

Yet all these excuses did not change the fact.

Would _he _damage the infant by ignoring it? Would _he_ be a crack in its sanity? Would _he_ be to Eva…as Madeleine was to _him_?

He refused to think about it any longer. This was Christine's responsibility—not his! If the infant grew up to be damaged, it was Christine's burden. It was.

_It was. _

Eventually, he returned to the surface, determined to ignore the revelation.

"Is everything all right?" asked Christine.

The infant turned its head to watch him.

"Yes," he replied. He sat on the couch and attempted to ignore it.

He continued to ignore it for the next few days, devoting all his attention to Christine. But the infant continued to watch him. And he could no longer deny that he feared ruining it. If there was one person in the world to whom he never wanted to be compared, it was Madeleine. How vile.

What if he…_pretended_ to accept the infant? Christine would still hold all responsibility for its upbringing. But perhaps if he gave Eva some attention, he would not damage the child's mind as severely. It would be another gift for Christine; she would be very upset if her child became insane.

He did not know where to begin. For the next few weeks, he simply stared back at the infant while it made noises at him. Christine once nervously laughed and asked, "Are you two having a staring contest?"

He grunted, not wishing to explain the seriousness of the situation. In fact, he didn't really want his wife to know about his revelation.

That was why he waited until Christine was taking a nap one afternoon before allowing the child to touch him. He hovered over both of them, staring down at the two physically perfect creatures.

The infant was becoming more coordinated and aware; _her _eyes were more knowing. Lying against her sleeping mother, Eva reached out a hand to him. He permitted the child to grab his finger for all of five seconds, not trusting her to do anything else. If the infant had any intelligence, she would have screamed rather than smiled at the contact. Perhaps Christine overestimated the child's aptitude.

He removed his finger from the infant's grasp before Christine awoke. He left them on the couch and went to the basement, feeling accomplished for the day. There would be no more misshapen links in the Ackart chain.

And he didn't even wash his hand.


	24. Chapter 24

Hey, everyone! Here is the next vignette. Tax season is upon us, so I've been a little worn out. Hopefully, I'll still get a chapter out every several weeks.

Thank you as always for your kind comments. Thanks to _MadLizzy_ for editing.

**Read and Review!!!**

The early morning hours had been some of her favorite times during their marriage…lying in bed with Erik before confronting the challenges of the day. Erik always seemed more relaxed, his muscles unwound and his breathing quiet. He could carry on conversations that were nearly normal, sharing stories from his past on occasion.

Since Eva's birth, they hadn't had many of those moments. Eva would start crying, and Christine had to tend to her. Of course, those times with her daughter were precious in their own way. Still, she missed spending the mornings with Erik.

And that was why a small smile graced Christine's face when Eva finally decided to sleep later. After glancing at the red digits on the alarm clock, she reached for Erik, wrapping an arm around his bare torso and scooting against him. He pressed a cold kiss to her forehead and then paused.

"Why is the infant not screeching?" he inquired, his gaze falling on the clock.

"Enjoy it," she replied with a laugh, trying to pull him in for another kiss.

He kept his head raised. "What if she is dead?"

"Erik!"

"You will be very upset if she is dead." He jumped out of the bed and left the room. A light flashed on. Moments later, Eva began to whine, likely startled by Erik's intrusion into her nursery.

"She is alive," Erik declared, returning to the room and lowering himself onto the bed. "You should not worry."

Shaking her head, Christine stood to retrieve her crying daughter. So much for a romantic morning.

The next time that Eva decided to sleep a little late, though, Christine managed to keep her husband in bed. "Eva's just growing up," she explained. "She'll cry less. You should be…happy."

"Oh." He seemed satisfied with the explanation, but Christine still wasn't able to discern his feelings toward Eva.

She had noticed him watching his daughter more. Christine avoided commenting on it for fear of discouraging Erik's attention toward Eva. If staring contests were the way that he chose to interact with her, well…it was certainly better than nothing.

It was a combination of two events that led Christine to make another momentous decision—although certainly not as significant as having a child.

First, she met Justin McKenzie outside one autumn day. Ever since Eva was born, Christine had noticed him keeping his distance and eyeing her with a wary frown. Was he annoyed that he'd been forced to drive her to the hospital? Carrying Eva in one arm, Christine decided to approach him. He nodded at her and then briefly smiled at Eva. Justin then glanced up and nearly scowled at her front door.

"How are you?" asked Christine.

He looked back at her. "I'm good. How 'bout yourself? Busy with the little one?"

"Always. But I'm good." She paused; he didn't seem mad. "I wanted to tell you 'thank you' for helping me out that day. It was wonderful of you."

His shoulders tensed. "No…problem."

"If there's anything we can do for you, just call."

"Yeah."

She shifted Eva to her other arm. "Well…see you later. Thanks again." Christine started to turn and head back inside.

"Christine." His voice was barely above a whisper.

"Yeah?" She whirled to face him, her stomach turning with unease.

"That day I drove you to the hospital…after I got home…."

"Yeah?"

"Your husband…."

Her eyes widened. "What about him?"

"I told him he should visit you there. Just thought it would nice; I didn't mean anything by it. Anyway, Erik cornered and…uh, threatened me. Maybe he was just tense considering…. But I was a little afraid for my life." Justin nervously chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck.

"Oh." She swallowed, her lips brushing against Eva's forehead. "Justin, I'm so sorry. When Erik gets stressed, he can be…difficult."

"It's fine. He didn't actually do anything. I've been keeping my distance, you know?"

"Yeah." She sighed. "I'm so sorry."

"It's fine. You know, with Katherine, I'm used to weird stuff."

"Yeah." Christine wasn't even sure what to say anymore.

"I guess there always has to be a saner one in any marriage," he continued.

"Umm…."

"It's a rough job, huh? Being the rock. I mean, I'm a guy with no kids; I can handle it." He stared intensely at her. "But you…I see you over there with that baby girl now…doing it all on your own…."

"I'm fine," she stated through dry lips. Eva squirmed in her arms, likely growing too warm. "I love my family."

"You are fine," he agreed.

"I am."

"But sometimes…I can't help but think someone should be over there taking care of you for once."

She flinched. "I do have someone taking care of me." He started to speak, but she interrupted him. "Don't, Justin. Just don't. I've had this conversation more times than I'd like to count--including with a very dear friend. He finally gave up and has his own wonderful family. I hope you find that, too. Anyway, thank you again for your help. I…I won't ask for it anymore." Christine turned around and left him there, Eva safely in her arms.

Once inside, Christine placed Eva in her carrier and collapsed onto the couch. After a second, she hopped back up and went to look at herself in the bathroom mirror. Tilting her head, she stared at her reflection, wondering why people always assumed she was miserable. Her face was a little thinner than she preferred; she certainly looked older than she had ten years ago. _But that was because she was ten years older! _

Christine returned to the living room. When Erik walked up from the basement, she stared at him. Eva turned and watched him as well, her little eyes lighting up. Christine still hadn't found at toy that interested Eva as much as her father interested her. Given the choice between watching Erik and a small robotic teddy bear that played a saxophone, Eva had practically smacked the poor bear to the floor.

Christine hesitated. She didn't want to accuse him, but it seemed important that Erik knew there might be a problem. "Erik?"

"Yes?"

"Justin said you…intimidated him on the day Eva was born."

He dismissively waved a hand to the side. "McKenzie tends to intrude into business that is not his concern. I was merely putting him in his place. No harm was done."

"Oh. I see." She chewed on the inside of her lip. "I'm wondering if we should consider moving soon."

Erik stood up straight, eyes glowing. "Why? Is that idiot informing the authorities? I did not place a hand on him! If he even considers pressing charges, I will go over there now and--"

"No, no, no!" If she wasn't careful, Justin was going to be more than intimidated by Erik. "I just…think it may be time to move on. We've stayed here long enough."

"But that is Erik's basement." He slouched.

"I'm sure we can find you a new basement. Maybe it's time for our own house."

"A house? That is away from other people?"

She smiled, watching as his expression changed from disdain to interest. "Maybe. Wouldn't it be nice to own a home?"

"It might be suitable to do so. We would not be bothered by idiot neighbors."

"Yes. We would have more privacy."

His eyes drifted to the side, and she could practically see him calculating all the pros and cons in his mind. After a moment, he glanced back up at her. "If my wife wishes for a house, then she should have one. It only must have a basement."

"I'll start looking for one," she replied. Eva made a noise as though in agreement.

Feeling braver about the idea, Christine began to house hunt, searching for a place that was neither too crowded nor isolated. If nothing suitable popped up, they might have to design their own. Erik might like that. Although…he'd probably try to install hidden passageways in it. She finally found some homes situated in more rural areas but close enough to population centers for food and other necessities. Her plan was to bring Erik out at night so that he could decide whether he liked any of them.

Christine was distracted from her project when Eva became ill two weeks later. A small cold rapidly developed into a nasty ear infection, and Eva was left screaming and clawing at her ear. She wailed all throughout the visit to the pediatrician, and the antibiotics were taking awhile to work. By nighttime, Christine was nearly ready to cry along with her baby.

Erik stood there with his arms folded, twitching every few moments as though the noise was putting him on edge. Christine rubbed her daughter's back, but it wasn't doing any good.

"Erik? Could you make her sleep?" Christine finally asked, placing her forehead in her hands. "Maybe your voice will help with the pain."

"Ah," he taunted as though he'd been expecting her request. "So now you want Erik's voice."

"Erik, _please_. I'm desperate. I told you it was okay in situations like this."

"My wife does not know what she wants."

"Erik! Please!" Christine nearly had to scream over Eva.

"Very well."

Erik sang what sounded like a French hymn, and Eva was immediately silent. Christine soon fell asleep in the cushioned rocking chair, tranquilized by her husband's voice. Hours later, she awoke, groggy and with a dry throat. The lights were dim, and all she could make out was Erik bending over Eva with his right hand reaching into the crib.

Christine jumped out of the chair, sending it rocking back into the wall with a crash.

Erik stood straight up and stared at her. "What is wrong?"

"What are you doing?" she asked, her heart pounding. Leaping up so fast had made her dizzy, and she grabbed the bar of the crib to steady herself. Eva blinked up at her.

"Nothing," he haughtily replied. "She is no longer ill." In his hand was a yellow plastic ball. Erik could make the small object disappear between his fingers. Christine had seen him doing it repetitively when stressed or when experiencing difficulty with his muse.

"What are you doing with that?" she softly asked, still foggy-headed.

"Merely…I do not know. What does it matter?"

"Are you doing magic tricks for her?" He didn't answer, and she took his silence as a 'yes.' "You're playing with her?" Christine felt her eyes start to fill with happy tears.

"What? You thought Erik was harming the infant?" he harshly inquired.

"No, no. I--"

"Erik has let it live this long. Why would he hurt it now?" His voice took on a mocking tone that he didn't use with her often.

"No. I--"

"Why do you stay if you think me such a monster?"

"Erik! Stop it! I don't think that! I know you wouldn't hurt her. But how am I supposed to always know what you're thinking? You barely look at Eva all this time; I thought you hated her. And now you're suddenly playing with her? How am I supposed to know?" She started to cry, the exhaustion of the day wearing heavily upon her. "I'm tired. I just woke up and saw you sticking your hand in her crib. I had no idea…."

Her eyes were too blurry to see, but she sensed Erik moving. She wondered if he was going to run to the basement and brood for the rest of the night. Instead, she felt a hand on her back. "Calm down," he murmured. "Never mind. It does not matter. It does not matter."

Christine turned to him and pressed her wet cheek against his chest. "You…don't hate her? You don't hate your daughter, right?"

Erik tensed. "If she believes I hate her, she will wonder why. She must not think that. It is not good for her mind."

"So you…you're doing it to make her feel better?"

"No. Yes. No. I do not know. Why must you analyze it? I am doing magic tricks for her so she will not scream. It appeases everyone. Why must there be a reason behind it? It simply makes sense."

"Yes," she softly replied. The conversation was going in circles. "You're right. It doesn't matter." Christine took a deep breath. "I'm glad you're giving her some attention. It makes me…very happy."

His eyes softened. Erik had a difficult time dealing with his own feelings toward people. But if he only had to understand his actions made _her_ happy, it seemed to bring him clarity. "I love my wife," he stated.

Christine yawned, too tired to make any more sense out of the situation.

"The infant is not in pain now," he stated. "You should sleep."

"Would you think I was silly if I asked you to carry me to bed?"

"Yes. But Erik will do it anyway." His lip twitched as he lifted her up. Christine thought it was better for both of them if he got to be the strong one that night.

She continued to let Erik find his own way when it came to his daughter. He disliked making too much contact or fulfilling any of her basic needs, but he'd occasionally talk to Eva or do a few magic tricks. And he'd sing to her whenever she was upset or sick.

Everything was moving forward so well that Christine was wary of disrupting the peace with more talk of finding a new home. Justin hadn't bothered her again, and she didn't feel threatened. Maybe what Erik and Eva needed was simple stability.

It was a conversation with Mr. Richardson that changed her mind again.

They met several times a year to discuss Erik's compositions. Although he was a bit boisterous, Mr. Richardson had done an amazing job of keeping secrets. Maybe he knew what a money-maker he had with the music. Or maybe he was actually a decent human being.

Christine noticed a small scowl on his face as she sat across from him at the large desk. He scratched his ear and folded his hands together, leaning forward slightly and looking her in the eye. She swallowed and shifted in her chair.

"So you've got a little girl now?" he began as though grateful for a distraction.

"Yeah. She's with my sitter." Christine wished he would skip the pleasantries. Maybe it was the result of living with Erik all these years, but she'd learned to appreciate directness.

"How old is she?"

"Getting close to five months."

"Wow. Great." He cleared his throat.

"Is anything wrong?"

"Well…I thought you should know something. Now it's not that big of a deal. It may be nothing, actually."

"What?" Her heart was beating faster.

"One of our new employees in the finance department stumbled over your name and…managed to piece some things together. He's an obnoxious but bright kid. One of those type A personalities trying to climb their way up the ladder, you know what I mean?"

"What…what does he know?"

"He knows your first name, and he knows you might be acquainted with Mr. Mysterious. I don't think it's a big deal. First of all, there's only so much he can find out about you by digging through our files. We don't have much on record. Secondly, we're talking about a composer…not a pop star or an actor."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean, you don't exactly see John Williams on the front of the tabloids every week. The identity of Mr. Mysterious isn't going to be the year's biggest news, and I doubt too many reporters are dying to get their hands on the info." He paused. "Still…I thought you should know."

She wasn't completely comforted. "What should I do?"

"Well…maybe be prepared if anyone tries to contact you. Try not to give out too much information about yourself."

Christine leaned back into the chair, feeling as though a rock had floated to the bottom of her stomach. "I don't want anyone near my family." She hesitated. "If anyone finds out too much, tell them _I'm_ the composer. Tell them it's me. Then they won't dig any deeper."

His eyes lit up. "I thought so!" Mr. Richardson exclaimed. "I thought it was you the whole time! Your name is on all the checks. And you're a singer, after all!"

She grunted and decided not to acknowledge or deny it. "Only tell people that if they start finding out too much. Otherwise, don't say anything. Try to keep them away. _Please._"

His smile faded. "You should be out there winning awards, you know? Why not step into the spotlight for a couple of moments?"

"No." She shook her head and nearly glared. "I don't want awards; I want to be left alone. But if some stupid…stupid _boy _wants to play detective, then I might not have a choice."

"You're a strange one, Mrs. Ackart. Then again, what artist isn't a little out there?"

"I think I'll also be moving soon," she continued, her gaze drifting to the floor. "Maybe somewhere quiet and more private."

"Oh? Is everything okay?"

"Yeah. It's just time to move on."

"Will you still be composing?" The disappointment was evident in his voice.

"Probably. But maybe I'll stop sending the music to you until we--I mean, _I_ get the all clear. Just to be on the safe side." She looked down at her hands.

"I understand. Good luck with everything. I'll try to keep that dumb kid out of your business. I'd fire him outright, but his father is on the Board. "

"Thanks." That _dumb kid_ was going to be in for a surprise if he ever tried to show up at the Ackart house. Several morbid thoughts skipped through her mind.

"And I promise to ensure that all your information is kept locked up from this point forward. You'll be dealing directly with me from now on. You have my word."

"Thanks. _Anything _you can do to make this problem go away would be appreciated. And then maybe I can do business with you again." She placed emphasis on the last sentence, hoping it would push him into taking action. Christine then shook Mr. Richardson's hand and left.

Eventually, she'd tell Erik about the potential problem. First, she wanted to ensure that they were as safe as possible, mostly to stop Erik from taking any actions of his own. Christine began to house hunt again, searching for a place that was farther from the cities than originally planned.

She also phoned Gavin, wanting to explain the situation in case her name ever popped up in the evening news and also desiring to visit with him after a good number of years. Erik had never forgiven him for the incident concerning the serial killer, and Christine thought Gavin's marriage might improve without her nearby. The end of their friendship had been a natural occurrence. To her relief, though, he sounded happy to hear from her and agreed to a lunch meeting.

She smiled as she saw Gavin again. Like Raoul, he'd gotten broader. He wore a short beard and looked well-traveled—almost like a professor.

"How are you?" she asked, giving him a hug.

"I'm good. How 'bout yourself?" He stepped back and studied her. His gaze then fell to a sleeping Eva, and he slowly smiled.

"I'm great." They stepped into a booth and let the waitress take their drink order. It'd been awhile since she went out to eat with anyone. "What have you been up to?"

He shrugged and leaned back. "Oh. The usual. I traveled for awhile. After I got tired of that, I came home to be with my family. I taught a few college classes. And I've been doing some work on a campaign for a congressman."

"Wow. Exciting! That's wonderful. How is your family?"

"We're…pretty good." From his tone, she could tell there still might be a few marriage problems. "I have a son now; he's two and enjoys tearing the house apart." Gavin glanced down. "And you look like you've got one of your own, too. She's adorable." He paused. "That's…she is…Erik's?"

Christine rolled her eyes. "Yes, Gavin. What kind of girl do you think I am?"

"No. I just…I mean, it's kind of strange to think of her as his…."

Eva awoke, and Christine pulled her daughter into her lap. "Well, she is Erik's. Completely."

"Wow," he murmured. Gavin bent down toward her. "Hi there, Eva-boo." Eva smiled at him, and he studied her for a few more moments, probably searching for a glimpse of Erik. "She brings back memories of Rose at that age."

"How is Rose?"

"She's great. Looks just like her mother and is getting closer to the dreaded teenage years." Gavin gave a fake shudder. "I'm going to have to fight off the boys soon." His eyes widened. "Jesus. Erik's eventually going to have to do that, too."

"Don't even bring that up. I'll be lucky to get her through grade school without any incidents."

"Yeah. Well, if a bunch of teenage boys start mysteriously disappearing in about fifteen years, I'll know that little Eva has started dating."

Christine groaned. "Shut up, Gavin."

He tickled one of Eva's bootie-clad feet. "You're never going to have a boyfriend. No you're not."

Eva squealed. Christine glared.

He laughed and glanced back up. "Heh. Just…kidding." They made a little more small talk concerning their lives and families. Christine didn't get into too much detail concerning the difficulties Erik was having with fatherhood, and Gavin never elaborated on any problems at home. She did eventually tell him about Erik's composing and the sudden need for privacy. "Maybe it's nothing," she murmured. "But I think we may get far away for awhile. I think Erik will be happier, too."

"Yeah. I understand. Some people can't mind their own damn business." He paused. "If worse comes to worse, I could write a short article on you. I mean a fake piece about you being a composer. I'll make it as boring as possible."

"That might help. Thanks, Gavin. You've done so much for us."

"Let me tell you; I've made good money on our little adventure. I should probably be paying you for all the doors that opened for me."

She smiled. "I'm glad." They were both silent for a moment, perhaps remembering those times in London. "Anyway, Erik and I will also be moving soon. To our own house—probably somewhere secluded."

"I'm actually surprised you didn't do that long ago," he replied. "Move away from everyone, I mean."

"I guess…I finally feel strong enough to do it."

"I see." They shared a few more words over their meal, mostly light-hearted conversation about their children.

"Tell your family 'hello'," she said at the end. "Maybe we'll run into each other again one day."

"Sure. Stop by if you're ever up here. And let me know if you need any help." Gavin smiled down at Eva. "And you behave--meaning take after your mother."

They parted, and Christine returned home, feeling somewhat consoled. After thinking it over, she decided that no one would be able to figure out Erik's past. There were no records or evidence. All of the murders during that time period had been attributed to an internal war at _Falcon_. No—the worst that could happen would be the exposure of Erik's face. And his face was no crime.

Still…Christine would move to the Arctic before she'd let anyone expose her family. Eva would look adorable in one of those Eskimo hats.

She didn't want to wait for a custom house to be built. If Erik didn't like parts of the home, he could always remodel. After spending entire days searching, Christine found a brick house that seemed suitable. It was three stories including the basement, fairly big but nowhere near a mansion. The nearest neighbor was about half a mile away. From the flower garden and grinning lawn gnomes, she guessed that the residents were older.

During the evening, Christine took Erik to see it and get his final opinion. As he stepped out of the car, his gaze wandered over the green grass that covered the lawn and the wide, empty space. Eva was still sleeping in her car seat when Christine lifted her out of the vehicle. Because the weather was cold, it was silent. If it had been warmer, Christine was sure that insects would be chirping all around them.

"Yes," Erik slowly stated. "We will have our own house with no one to bother us."

She was about to explain that she didn't have a key, but Erik maneuvered the front door open within a few seconds. Hiding a smile, she walked in behind him as he made an immediate dash to the basement. Christine could see the delight in his eyes when he came back upstairs. Erik inspected the rest of the home before returning to the entryway.

"Well?" she asked.

"It is ours…although I may make a few minor adjustments. The window in our bedroom is much too large. The sun will creep in every morning and blind both of us."

Christine beamed and wrapped an arm around his torso. He kissed the top of her head. She could practically feel Erik claiming the home as his own…daring anyone else to get near it.

"Everything in here will be mine," he stated as they departed.

"Even Eva?"

"Everything."


	25. Chapter 25

This vignette went through a lot of revision, but my beta and I finally went with what we found to be the most realistic version. Anyway, I'm sorry if it's a tad angsty. There will be two or three more vignettes after this one that bring everything together. Although this couple makes a fairy tale ending kind of impossible, I promise that the last vignette won't leave you depressed.

Thanks to all who continue to read. And thank you to all who have joined me on my latest story. You guys keep me writing.

And a huge thanks to _MadLizzy _for her help with this vignette. I hope she can forgive me for taking up her Saturday.

**Read and Review!!!**

It was his own small kingdom. If possible, _he_ would have surrounded the new house with a crocodile-infested moat.

He rarely mentioned the idea of moving away from civilization because he knew Christine required people. When _she_ brought it up, though, that had been an entirely different matter. It had only required a few seconds of thought to decide her suggestion was a divine one.

He watched her arrange the furniture, assisting whenever strength was required. She'd purchased a new oak coffee table and midnight blue leather sofa for their living room. The carpet was cream-colored, save for his basement where it was an appropriate grey. The interior was dark enough for him, but the windows allowed enough light in for her.

In some ways, the home matched the dream of his younger days. He had wanted a house away from the world—and had considered paying a female to remain with him. Of course, this was much better as he had never offered Christine money for her companionship.

Yes, it was much better.

After they had placed a good day's work into arranging their new home, his wife was curled up against him on the sofa. Eva was in her crib. Cordie, approaching older age, was curled up in a white ball atop the armchair. And _he_ was wide awake, guarding and admiring his new home in the silence. He was the ugliest man with the most beautiful things in the world.

There was a low rumble in the distance as grey clouds continued to gather and shroud the home in shadows.

Christine's head shot up, her tangled hair falling into her flushed face. "What was that?"

"Thunder," he replied, hoping she wouldn't move.

"Is Eva okay?"

"Sleeping."

After staring toward the window with her lips pursed, Christine relaxed again, and he rested his chin on her head. He had noticed a slight change in her over the last few weeks. Although seemingly happy, she was rather paranoid—worse than him sometimes. Perhaps the presence of the infant made her nervous.

No. The change had come after Eva.

An unpleasant ache gathered in his midsection as he wondered if the isolation was putting her on edge. Perhaps she would simply need time to adapt to their new home. He would give her more attention; she would never be lonely with Erik.

Of course, Christine did eventually arise to fetch the crying child. Eva was not quite as bothersome as she had been in the beginning. She screamed less and was easily entertained with magic tricks, toys, and his voice. Her smile also reminded him of Christine's, which distracted him from his mother's eyes.

He also learned that he would never be the one to dole out punishment. One afternoon, Eva had given Christine's dangling golden earring a sharp tug. Christine released a yelp.

_He_ had been seconds away from screaming at the child. _No one_ was permitted to lay a hand on his wife, including the infant.

"No, no," Christine had said, pulling Eva's hand away. "You don't do that to Mommy. No."

His mouth had closed. Perhaps he realized that flying into a rage might result in two sobbing females. And, after Christine's reprimand, all was perfectly calm. She would need to handle all discipline. He knew how to cherish what he loved and destroy what he hated. Handing out fair justice toward someone he--well, he did not know how he felt about Eva--but the entire concept was completely beyond him.

As Eva was part of his domain, he did wish her to learn the necessary lessons of the world.

Christine did not always appreciate that.

One time, while sitting beside him, the infant had dropped a plush toy in his lap. It was some type of ridiculous bird with white _hair_ on its body and green feathers on its head.

"I do not want this," he stated, removing the object from his being. "It is yours."

Eva placed the toy back on his lap with a grunt.

"Aw. She's learning to share," gushed Christine, clasping her hands together. "She wants you to have it."

"I do not want her to learn that." He had removed the bird for a second time. "I want her to learn to keep what is hers and fight anyone who tries to take it away." Eva gave him the stuffed animal again; he thrust it back at her. "I said this is yours. It is yours and no one else's. And if anyone attempts to take it, bite them as hard as you can."

"Erik!" Christine exclaimed. After glaring at him, she turned to Eva with a big smile. "Here, sweetheart. You can share the duck with Mommy."

Eva held the stuffed animal possessively against her chest; Christine shook her head.

_He_ would be damned, though, if his offspring were ever manipulated out of a penny.

After retrieving Eva from the crib, Christine returned to the couch. Every time there was another rumble of thunder, she jumped. Her gaze wandered to the window, and her brow furrowed. Leaving Eva beside him, she stood and walked over to the glass, peeling back the curtains.

"What is wrong?" he asked, keeping an eye on Eva to make sure she did not fall off the couch and snap her little neck.

"Nothing. Just some boys on bikes."

"Yes," he replied with slight annoyance. "They tend to wander down _my_ road. If they approach my house, I will…make it clear that this is our property."

She left the window, and he saw the tension in her facial muscles. What bothered his Christine? Did she still miss people so much? Christine returned to the sofa and gathered Eva in her arms again before scooting up against him. Her jaw was tightened. She took two deep breaths as though to relax herself.

Three weeks passed, and her demeanor remained the same. Christine smiled and laughed, but her eyes held worry and she was restless.

"You are quite miserable," he stated in resignation as they reclined in bed one evening. "This is too far away from other humans for you, isn't it? I thought perhaps you would become used to it…."

"No," she quickly protested with wide eyes. "Not at all. It's lovely here."

"Do not lie," he said without malice. "I see you glancing out the windows…waiting for someone…anyone…. You wish for a female companion, perhaps? We can go back to the city or suburbs. You must not be miserable."

"Don't you like it here?" she asked.

"I want to be where you are content."

She laughed and kissed his cheek. "But assuming I'm happy in either place, you'd rather be here?"

"It is more suitable for Erik," he finally admitted. "We are not bothered with others."

"I like it better, too. It's cozy like a nest…and ours…."

There was no lie in her eyes. "Then why are you so odd as of late? You stare out the windows. You pace. You cling to me in sleep as though…." His eyes murderously narrowed at the mere thought. "As though someone will take you away."

"Nothing is wrong," she replied. And now he knew she was lying.

"Tell me."

"It's probably nothing."

"Christine, I am always victorious at this ridiculous game. You will eventually tell me as you always do, or I will find out for myself."

"Oh Erik, there's this stupid…this stupid…_boy _and…."

He could already feel the heat rise. "A boy? Who? Where? Did he try to touch you? I will kill him…."

"No, no, no!" She rested a hand on his arm. "Please relax. This is why…never mind. I don't even know him. I've never seen him."

"What has he done to upset you?"

"Nothing…yet."

"_Christine._"

She sighed. "When I last met with Mr. Richardson, he said that someone may know about me. They might know I'm connected to your music. I don't know all the details."

His muscles tightened all over again as various horrific scenarios played in his mind. "Why did you not tell me this weeks ago?" he rasped.

"I didn't want you to be upset or…take any action. I thought it might go away on its own. Maybe it has. Nothing has happened since then."

"So some moron is hunting us?"

"I don't know. Like I said, I haven't heard anything since then. I've just been…watching."

"What is his name?"

"I don't know," she murmured. "I don't know anything about him. But please don't do anything."

"Perhaps I should at least return to the city and investigate this matter." He wanted to do something. More specifically, he wanted to hang the idiot.

"No," she protested. "Please, Erik. Let's see how it plays out."

"You mean wait until a herd of photographers show up at our door? The ingeniousness of that plan is astounding, my dear."

She slightly shifted away from him. "You don't have to be mean. I'm just as upset as you are…."

"I am not a…creature of inaction," he replied with less hostility. "I do not let people interfere with what is mine."

"No one will," she whispered. "But what if doing something creates a problem? What if we're perfectly safe right now?"

He half-grunted, half-growled. She wrapped her arms around him, pressing another kiss to his cheek. The action was probably meant to console him, but it upset him all the more. What if there was some vile piece of slime out there attempting to take this from him?

"Erik? Please?"

He glanced down at her. "I will do nothing. For now. But the moment it becomes apparent that someone is going to intrude into our lives, I will not stand by and watch like a swine awaiting slaughter."

"Deal," she whispered. "Neither will I."

Over the next few months, he became paranoid with her, watching out the windows or standing outside in the shadows of his home. After several years of not touching the lasso, he removed it from a small leather bag and threaded it through his fingers. Nothing occurred, though. There were no phone calls or visitors or letters. One evening, he finally threw his skeletal hands up in the air and fell onto the sofa. This was ridiculous. He was going to spend the rest of his life concerned with this. He hoped the idiot was lying dead in a gutter somewhere.

Eva glanced up at him from the floor where she was surrounded by her toys. They had a short staring contest. After a moment, she began to move toward him, scooting on her hands and knees along the carpet until she was at his feet.

"Finally, you can transport yourself," he stated, bending his neck to stare down at her. Eva was victoriously tugging on his pants leg. He stiffly patted her head. "Perhaps you will be able to feed yourself as well. It will soon be time for you to cease your dependency on Christine."

Christine whirled away from the window and let out a little cry. "She crawled? And I missed it? No! Argh!"

He nearly snorted. "I am sure she will do it again."

"But I missed it!" she exclaimed. He stared at his wife; sometimes the toddler caused Christine to behave oddly.

Christine collapsed on the couch beside him and picked Eva up. "We shouldn't be living in fear like this," she said. "You were right. I'm going to call Mr. Richardson. Maybe I'll go to a payphone so our number can't be traced."

"And what if you find out that it is hellish?" he asked. "If we are threatened? Exposed to where there is no lying your way out of it? What does Erik do?"

"I don't--"

"You must know," he harshly interrupted. "You are the one with the boundaries. You are the conscience. What does Erik do?"

She swallowed. "If it's that bad, we run. To another state or even country. You're familiar with Europe and India. We'll find somewhere safe."

He crossed his arms. "You would run and hide with Erik…again?"

"Of course," she whispered.

"And Eva?"

There was a brief flash of pain in her eyes and then resolve. "Well…she'll be a very well-travelled baby, won't she? It'll look good on a future resume." She smiled down at her daughter. "Can you say _bonjour_?"

He shook his head in disgust. "This is ours. All of it. We have played by society's rules, or at least most of society's rules to get it. If it is taken, you will be the one thing keeping Erik sane."

Christine rested her cheek on his shoulder. "You think I won't fight for it? It's all mine, too. _Ours._ But if worse comes to worse, I'll follow you, Erik."

Despite the situation, he did feel slightly better after she said that.

In some ways, he'd always imagined himself fighting each day to keep Christine.

But he realized that she was fighting, too. His Christine was battling to keep them together.

Not only did he have a wife--he had an ally.

* * *

Late on a Monday evening, all three of them drove to a gas station about an hour away from their home, Eva wrapped in a fuzzy pink blanket and sleeping soundly in the backseat. Erik had refused to allow Christine to go there alone, and so it had become a family affair.

"Back among people again," Erik complained, staring out the window at the passing cars and glaring lights. "I wish for my house."

"We'll be back soon enough."

"Vile idiots interfere with my life," he ranted. He'd been muttering throughout the whole trip. "If we are lucky, the moron will catch the plague."

Christine climbed out of the car, ignoring the other customers and knowing that she and her daughter would be perfectly safe with Erik there. With a deep breath, she walked to a payphone right outside the entrance and slipped in enough change for a long distance call. She dialed Mr. Richardson's cell phone number; he probably wouldn't be at work.

He sounded slightly irritated when he answered, maybe eating dinner. "Hello?"

"Hi, Mr. Richardson."

"Yes? What can I—wait a minute! Christine? Is that you?"

"Yeah. It's me."

He sounded excited now. "I haven't heard from you in a long time. How are you? How's the cute kid? How can I help you?"

"We're…fine." She took a deep breath and continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "I had to know what's going on. I'm constantly afraid that kid is going to show up at our door and ruin our lives."

"Oh. That." Mr. Richardson cleared his throat. "He's a weird kid actually. Sometimes high strung."

"But what about my music?" she pressed, not wanting a psychological profile. "Does he still care about it?"

"He mentioned it once about two months ago, but--"

"So what did you tell him?"

"I…told him the music was composed by a woman who simply wanted her privacy. And then I went to the kid's father and told him that if your privacy was violated, no one would ever sign with us again. I said, 'Why does your kid feel the need to annoy this poor woman?'"

Her heart skipped a beat. "What'd his father say?"

"He wasn't that interested. Just said he'd look into it and shooed me out."

"Oh no…."

"Anyway, I went back to the kid and said if he'd leave you alone, he could have a promotion on the West Coast. I told him he was wasting his time. After all, information about you is already in old newspapers. Christine Daae Ackart. Once engaged to the Count involved in the _Falcon_ mess. A former opera singer. Who the hell is going to care if you compose, too?"

She swallowed. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he'd think about it."

She rolled her eyes in aggravation. "So do you think he'll still bother us?"

"I don't know. He doesn't have much to go off on. Maybe he'll take the promotion and leave us alone. He's always complaining about the weather here. How the heck can he pass up California?"

Christine wasn't entirely reassured. Like Erik, she wanted this completely fixed and with no loose ends. She wanted to go home with peace in her heart, but maybe that was impossible…."Is there anything I can do?"

"Not unless you want to let him meet you and satisfy his curiosity. I don't know if that'd make things better or worse."

She nearly glared at the thought. "No. I don't want to be anywhere near him."

"Then you'll have to leave it all to me," said Mr. Richardson. "You don't have to worry. I'll fix it. Just lay low like you were doing."

Christine paused. "Can I have his name?"

She wondered if he'd deny her the information, but Mr. Richardson replied, "Arthur. Arthur Wickham."

"Thank you. If he contacts me, I'll know who he is now."

"Exactly."

An awkward silence passed between them. "Well…thank you for talking with me," she said with a dismayed sigh.

"You're welcome. I'm promise I'm still working on it," he replied. "I think we'll be completely rid of him soon. Please, please, please keep in touch."

"I'll…try." She hung up and left the phone with an odd feeling in her stomach. The sky hadn't fallen nor were they completely safe. Sometimes it seemed like limbo was the worst kind of hell. When Christine returned to the car, she told Erik everything. "Now what?" she softly asked.

He said something in French, and she guessed it was a curse. "This is going in irritating circles."

"I know." Eva was making cooing noises in the backseat, and the sound made Christine suddenly burst into angry, frustrated tears. "Why won't people leave us alone?" she asked between sobs, staring straight out the window through blurred eyes. "It's not fair! I hate him! I want people to leave me and you and my baby alone! If it wasn't illegal, I'd _let_ you kill him." She clamped a hand over her mouth as soon as the words left her lips, knowing it'd been a dangerous and irresponsible thing to say. Taking a deep breath and regaining self-control, she removed her hand. "I didn't mean that," she whispered. "Don't."

Erik was sitting in the passenger seat with his head tilted backward onto the headrest. With the mask, she couldn't see his expression, but his eyes were oddly calm. "And what do you want of me?" he softly asked. "Erik can make him go away. Erik can make us go away. Erik will do whatever you want."

She slid her hand into his. Ice against heat always created a comfortable warm. "I…I don't want you to do anything to him. You've come so far and…. But…maybe if you could just get everything ready in case we ever have to leave. Name changes, new identification…a foreign account. Just in case. Can you do that? Could you make us disappear if we ever had to?"

He squeezed her hand. "Of course. That is nothing."

She lifted his mask and pressed a kiss to her husband's lips. "Thank you," she murmured. Leaning back, she grabbed one of Eva's feet and gave it a tickle, making her daughter smile. "Ready to go home?"

"I am," stated Erik.

Taking another deep breath, she turned on the car and headed back home, always casting a glance toward her rearview mirror.

Hopefully, the world had grown tired of hearing about little Christine Daae and her adventures from over ten years ago. And Raoul. And Gavin. And the shadow man. They were just wives and husbands with their own uninteresting domestic lives. All had moved on.

Still, they would prepare for the worst. Even if Arthur Wickham soon disappeared, there would be others like him. She and Erik would have to always be cautious, going into public as little as possible…trusting no one.

Over the next few months, Christine didn't mind living a quiet and secluded life with her husband and daughter. She was a bear in her den, surrounded by the people closest to her heart. Erik, of course, didn't mind either. He was very content, even spending more time with Eva.

It was only when Christine saw Eva watching a children's television program one morning that she realized life couldn't be quite that simple. Eva was staring at several young kids dancing and singing on the screen, her dark eyes lit up with delighted fascination. She reached out a pudgy hand as though she wanted to touch them.

And it was then Christine wondered if Eva would ever be able to understand why she couldn't have friends.


	26. Chapter 26

Hello, everyone. I hope you're enjoying the summer. Here's the next vignette, and a big thanks to everyone who continues to read. There may only be one more after this, depending on how long it becomes. It may take two more vignettes to resolve the last issues.

Thanks to _MadLizzy_ for all her support.

**Read and Review!!!**

It took Erik only a few months to gather the desired documents. Sometimes he would leave for the entire night, and Christine would lie awake in the dark, the covers pulled up to her chin. Two fears circled in her mind. _What if he never came back? What if he…injured someone?_ When Erik returned, she would scoot up to his side and wrap an arm around his waist, burying her face into his chest or shoulder. He would kiss the top of her head and say, "All is well."

One night, he came home and immediately switched on the light. Erik reached into his black jacket and removed several pieces of papers. He presented them to her, and she took them into her shaking hand. There were birth certificates, social security cards, driver's licenses, insurance information…everything. Erik was silent as she flipped through them.

After a minute, she set the papers on the sheets and turned to wrap both her arms around his neck. "Thank you," she murmured into his ear.

"We had better not need them. This house is _mine_."

"With any luck, we won't. I'm being extra careful. But I haven't seen or heard anything strange."

"Neither have I." Erik paused. "I investigated the boy."

Her heart pounded, but she didn't release him. "You did?"

"I did not lay a hand upon the idiot, and he does not know of my existence. I merely…observed. On the weekends, Mr. Wickham has a fondness for females of the night and certain recreational drugs. If he ever disturbs us, there are various avenues of destroying him."

"Oh…."

"However…it appears he is preparing to leave. Someone else is renting his condominium in one month; it is nearly empty."

"Really? He's leaving?" She relaxed into him. "Oh, Erik. That makes me feel better. Finally."

He glanced at the papers. "Still…now we are prepared for whatever else comes upon us. There must always be an escape route. We should have organized this years ago."

"Well, now we're protected…because of you. And you did it without hurting anyone. I'm…so proud of you."

She looked up into his eyes, and they shared a long kiss. Slowly, she began to undo the buttons of his white shirt. Her lips trailed down his chest, and she smiled against his pale skin as his fingers wandered over her body, gently removing her nightgown. "It is divine," he whispered into her ear once he'd positioned her beneath him, her bare legs entwined with his. "I am undisturbed with _my _wife in _my _house."

"Our peace," she softly agreed. "I love you." She pressed her lips to his shoulder and sucked in her breath at the warm, tingling sensations. This was her cocoon. And she felt loved and protected with her husband moving against her and their baby sleeping safely in the other room. She pulled him closer and tilted her head back onto the pillow at the pinnacle, releasing her breath in a heavy sigh. Erik's soft cry was the ending note.

As they rested in the afterglow, she was about to tell him that Eva had stood that day, using the sofa's edge to steady herself. But then Christine decided it was best not to bring up their daughter. Erik considered this _their_ time. Content, she started to drift off against his shoulder.

To her surprise, though, he suddenly mentioned her. "You go out with Eva often."

"Once or twice a week," said Christine, opening her eyes again. "To the park. It's good for her to have fresh air. And she loves the swings and slides. It's a nice playground—never too crowded."

"I see." He didn't seem upset, simply curious.

"You're always welcome to come with us," she added. "We go in the evening sometimes."

"Mm," was his only answer. He rested his cheek against her head, and they slept.

It was still difficult to discern how Erik felt about Eva, but Christine had learned how to handle certain situations so that there was less tension.

Like a good mother, she had bought plastic insertions for the electrical outlets. Unfortunately, she'd taken out one to vacuum and forgotten to replace it. Of course, Eva found the two little holes and thought it would be great fun to poke at them.

Christine jumped as she heard Erik yell one afternoon. "You will not touch that!" he snapped in a frightening voice. "No! You will not touch it!"

She turned around in time to see Eva quickly withdraw her finger and burst into tears. Christine hesitated, at first wanting to gently explain that he could speak in a nicer voice. But she went with her second instinct. Christine squeezed Erik's arm and simply said, "Thank you for protecting her." She plucked Eva off the floor and cuddled her until she stopped bawling. Eva never again did try to touch an electrical outlet. And Erik only used that horrible voice when it was a matter of danger.

And then there were the moments of slow development—the moments that resulted in both great beauty and fresh problems.

One day, Christine stood in the entryway to their living room and merely admired both of them. Erik was reading a book regarding theories of how the universe began, and Eva was playing with several stuffed animals at his feet. Occasionally, she'd pulled on his pants leg or tap his shoe, trying to get his attention. Finally, Erik set the thick book aside and leaned forward to stare down at her. Eva gazed back with wide eyes. Christine fearfully wondered if Erik was going to tell his daughter to stop pestering him.

"That will eat you, you know?" he said, gesturing to the stuffed tiger. Eva chomped her teeth together. "Yes. That is what it will do. And it will devour the other animals as well." Eva reached behind and grabbed her zebra. "Precisely. There will be no zebra after the tiger is finished." Eva then pulled out a stuffed snake. "Hm. They might ignore each other unless the tiger steps on the snake in which case the snake might strike. I believe, though, that the serpent would much prefer to eat your rabbit." The pink bunny was one of Eva's favorite toys, and she quickly gathered it into her arms. Erik chuckled.

Christine had to keep from laughing aloud. _Okay, so maybe it wasn't exactly the most pleasant way to teach a child about the animal kingdom, but…. Oh!_ She was still delighted with the interaction. With her back to the wall in the other room, she could hear Erik classify the carnivores and herbivores.

These moments became more frequent over the next few months. When Eva was playing with wooden building blocks, he taught her about arches and structural support. She had a rubber blow-up ball that was also a globe, and he named the continents for her. At one point, he even tried to show her how magnets worked, but Eva tried to eat the one that looked like a horseshoe. Erik had snatched the magnets from her, jumped off the couch, and grumbled about 'irritating children' as he marched down to the basement. After that last event, Christine was afraid he'd stop interacting with her. By the next day, though, he was showing Eva pictures of the planets circling the sun.

As Christine watched them with warmth in her heart, she decided to take a chance. After tiptoeing to their bedroom and yanking a digital camera out of her sock drawer, she innocently sauntered back to the living area. She kept the camera behind her back. They were finished with the book by that time.

"Hi, guys," she said. It must have been written all over her face; Erik's eyes were narrowing with great suspicion. "Can I…um…take a picture of you both?"

"Why?" he asked, leaning back.

"Just to have. I don't have one of you both together." Christine also wanted something for Eva to have—evidence that her father had spent time with her from nearly the beginning. "Please?"

"Only with the mask," said Erik with an aggravated sigh. He still disliked photographs; Christine only had about twenty pictures of him and her together.

"That's fine," she gratefully replied. He stood up and stalked away to retrieve it. Eva squinted up at Erik when he returned when the realistic mask. She was always slightly bothered by his other face, although she did seem to understand that Erik was still under there. "Eva, can you smile?" Christine asked, distracting her attention before he became upset by the situation.

Eva curved her lips upward as Erik resumed his place beside her. Christine stepped backward with the camera and held it up to her eyes. The picture could be far from perfect; she only wanted them together. Still, she paused as Eva scooted up against Erik and sleepily leaned her cheek against his arm. Christine felt a lump in her throat. Erik remained tense but motionless, and she quickly snapped several pictures before either one of them ruined the pose.

She eventually printed ten photographs off the computer. One went missing. Without asking any questions, Christine simply made another copy.

Eva's first word came on a rainy Sunday morning. Christine had just finished dressing her in jean overalls and was walking toward the living room. Erik was browsing the computer, his mind probably on his newest piece. Even if he no longer sent his works into a publisher, he was still composing. Nothing could take away his need for music.

Carrying Eva with one arm, Christine paused in the entryway. "Who is that?" she softly asked as she sometimes did when Eva watched him. Christine never expected an answer. "Who is that over there?"

"Ek."

Christine blinked. "What? Who?"

"Ek."

"Yes!" she quickly agreed. "Very good. You're right, Angel. That is Erik, isn't it?" A part of her was thrilled that Eva had said her first word. And yet another part was disappointed that it wasn't _da_ or _ma_.

Erik glanced up from his work. "Am I so fascinating that you must stand there and stare at me for the entire morning?"

"She said your name," stated Christine, walking into the room with a smile. "Who is that?" she again asked Eva.

"Ek."

He seemed uncomfortable, adjusting his position on the couch. "That is not my name. Perhaps she is saying something else."

"No," replied Christine. "She's trying to say 'Erik.'"

"Ek," Eva agreed.

Erik hesitated. "Fine. I am Erik. She is correct."

He didn't mention whether he wanted Eva to call him by his first name, and Christine didn't ask. Maybe she'd let time and Eva decide. At night, Christine started reading her a children's series about families, and, of course, there was a Mom, Dad, sister, and brother. The woman in the pictures was blonde, and so Eva quickly formed a connection between that mother and her mommy.

The father had dark brown hair, glasses, and a moustache, and Eva had a harder time making the comparison. At one point, she touched the father's nose, touched her own, and then touched Christine's. Unable to express herself further, Eva frowned.

"Yes," whispered Christine once she understood. "You have a nose, and I have one. And _that_ father has one. But your dad doesn't, and that's okay. It's okay not to have a nose."

Instead of saying: _Erik doesn't_, she'd mistakenly said: _Dad doesn't._

"Ek."

"Yes. Erik doesn't. And Erik is your father and dad. Just like that father. But you can call him Erik." Eva was staring at her as though she'd lost her mind. Christine rubbed her temples. "I don't even know now."

"Ma." Eva patted her arm.

"Yes," she gratefully replied, kissing Eva on the forehead. "That one is _definitely _right."

Eva also had difficulty making a decision. And the next time she pulled on Erik's pants leg, she exclaimed, "Ek! Da!"

Erik's shoulders tensed, and he turned to Christine with an accusatory stare.

"We're reading a book with a mother and father," she quickly explained, trying to extinguish the spark before it started a fire. "But she can call you if Erik, if that's what you want. I didn't know…. Tell her what you want her to call you, and it'll be fine."

He shook his head and glanced at Eva. Still, Erik didn't say anything, and Eva eventually switched over to _Da_. He allowed it, responding to the name and never correcting her. Maybe Erik found it acceptable if Eva adopted him as her father; he just didn't want to take responsibility for initiating it. That way, he could never be blamed if anything went wrong.

Wrapped up in these strange but sweet morsels of life, Christine nearly forgot some of the realities of living. Thankfully, Erik remembered. "How is our financial situation?" he asked one evening, glancing up from his pen and notebook.

"We're…good," she said, needing a moment to recall the last figure she'd calculated. "Even with Eva, we don't spend too much each month. I think we're okay for several years. Eventually, either I'm going to have to sing, or you're going to have to compose."

"Do you miss singing?"

"Sometimes. Maybe I'd like to do it again someday…but not right now."

"Ah. You can always sing only for me. I wish to hear your voice again."

"I'll always do that," she murmured. "It would be a good idea to keep my voice in shape."

"We will," he agreed. "And we will watch our accounts. Did you make the investments that I asked of you?" Erik had chosen several stocks that he believed had potential, and she had invested some of their disposable income under her name. He still disliked money but had come to see it as a necessary part of keeping his beloved home.

"Yeah," she said with a smile. "They're doing well, aren't they? You were right about that company making cancer drugs."

"Yes, but we will not depend upon them like some idiots who are now living in their cars. If nothing else, I will send my music to a European publisher who cannot come near us. That, or I will write dull music that can be used in elevators and shopping centers. No one will notice it then." He glared slightly. "Americans are far too inquisitive."

"We'll figure out something within the next years. Our music has always gotten us by."

"Always," he whispered in agreement.

She soon wondered if Eva had inherited any musical talent. Christine bought a colorful toy xylophone and attempted to teach Eva a few simple songs like "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star." The _ding-ding_ sound made Erik twitchy, though, and so she only let Eva play when he was in his basement. "I will teach her music when she is capable of…appreciating it properly," he explained, casting an icy stare toward the xylophone. "As of now, she does not have enough coordination nor sense of rhythm. It is a disaster. No, it would not be good. Not at all, Christine."

So, for the time being, Christine became Eva's only music teacher. It was still too early to tell whether Eva had any natural ability. She did seem to enjoy music, though, swaying back and forth to it and sometimes attempting to sing along with children's songs.

Erik did begin reading to her on some nights but refused to 'go through the torture of children's fiction.' "If Spot and his mother embarked on a walk by themselves," he began, "they would be captured by animal control and likely euthanized. If a cat the size of a human being entered my home and acted in such a crazed manner, I would kill him. Or sell him to science for study. I will not subject myself to such ridiculousness." He'd thrown the books aside.

Christine didn't know if _A Tale of Two Cities _was appropriate reading material for a one-year-old. Hopefully Eva was too young to understand most of it--like the decapitation. Still, Christine enjoyed seeing Erik sit beside the crib as Eva snuggled up beneath her blanket. No matter what he was reading, Erik's voice was beautiful and hypnotic. Eva usually fell asleep within ten minutes.

Maybe it wasn't a completely normal situation, but Christine felt they were successfully stimulating Eva without putting her around other children. She handled Eva's basic needs along with affection, and Erik was providing her with knowledge. They could probably continue to do so until she reached pre-school age. And then…Christine wasn't quite sure what would happen.

Eva quickly learned the word "out." It usually meant that she wanted to leave their house and go somewhere else, even if it was only to the bank or grocery store. Erik soon disliked the word and, depending on his mood, would either leave the room or distract Eva with a song.

If Eva was insistent on going out, loudly whining and bursting with energy, Christine usually drove her to one of the nearby parks. Usually, they were empty…vacant swings rocking back and forth in the breeze as birds hopped around the trashcans. Sometimes other children were playing, and Christine would cautiously allow Eva to wander around them. She was still too young to interact, and the other kids usually ignored her. What would she do when Eva started talking? _Your dad has a nose, but mine doesn't._

At least Erik's face was the only risky topic that Eva could mention to other people. She knew nothing of Erik's past _activities_, and Christine intended to keep it that way. Was it really necessary that Eva knew her father had taken lives? Was it really necessary that Eva ever found out her parents had first met in a hostage situation? Christine didn't think so.

One sunny day, she took Eva to the park and sat down on the wooden bench. Eva toddled around, smiling at some nearby pigeons that were dining on an overturned bag of popcorn. Two squirrels chasing each other up and around a tree caused her to giggle with delight. The light made her eyes sparkle, and her glowing face indicated that she was thriving in the open environment. Christine sighed.

Within ten minutes, another mother arrived with her small blond son. Christine shifted and politely smiled. She noticed that the mother was carrying a messy blue and green painting of…something.

"Finally stopped raining," said the woman, sitting on the closest bench. She fluffed out her dark-brown perm. "We were going crazy being cooped up all week. My husband ran out with his golf clubs at six this morning, and I haven't seen him since."

Christine softly laughed. "Yeah. It is nice out."

The woman smiled at Eva. "How old is your little girl?"

"She's about one and a half." Christine hesitated and decided to make safe conversation. "And your son?"

"Just turned three." She proudly held up the painting. "We came back from his art class and decided to play at the park for a bit."

"Art class?"

"Yes. I wanted to enroll him in some type of activity but wasn't quite ready to put him in preschool all day. So we go to a child's art class twice a week."

"That sounds nice. And you're…with him the whole time?"

The woman nodded. "Yes. He's still a bit shy. I don't know why. My nine-year-old never quits talking." She turned to look at her son and started to softly laugh. Christine glanced in that direction, and her eyes widened. Eva was following the little boy. Whenever he stopped walking, she would stop, too. He kept glancing over his shoulder with a frown of deep concern. Eva was giggling, but the boy appeared slightly frightened.

"Honey, calm down," said the other mother. "She's just trying to play with you."

"No, no!" he cried. Eva laughed again.

Christine couldn't hide her smile. "Come here, Eva," she called. "Leave him alone."

"It's fine," said the mother, rolling her eyes. "He needs to learn how to play with other kids. I dread kindergarten."

Christine made sure Eva didn't pester the poor little boy too much. Still, the encounter left her somewhat optimistic. At least Eva didn't fear people. Yet.

And the art class sounded like a good idea—or something similar to it. Eva would be able to interact with other children, and Christine would be able to monitor her. It would be an ideal situation until Eva was old enough to understand that certain things were better left unsaid.

"I think it would be good for her," she explained to Erik several nights later.

"Why?" He was already folding his arms against his chest.

"Well, she could meet other people and learn about art…and being creative. I'm not saying I'm enrolling her tomorrow. But maybe in a year or two."

"She does not need that."

"But I think it'd be…."

"I will teach her art much more adequately than they are able to do so. Why did you not simply ask me? You think I will allow our offspring to become uneducated?" Erik leaned over and kissed her cheek in an almost condescending manner. "Our child will be much more intelligent than all the others. Do not worry."

"But…maybe she should meet other children."

He brushed his hand to the side. "Eva should not be influenced by other children. They will only delay her development _and_ intrude into our lives. And tomorrow I will teach her more about art than most adults know."

And Erik did. The following morning, he picked her up beneath the arms and placed her in the middle of the sofa. Eva stared at him with fascination as he took out an art history book, sat beside her, and spread the book over their laps. By the end of the day, she was pointing at Leonardo's famous portrait and declaring, "Mona!"

"Do you see?" asked Erik. "She will learn much more without making an idiotic necklace out of pasta wheels. When her hand is steadier, I will permit her to paint. But now is not the proper time for that. She only needs to understand the various periods and styles." He gently patted Eva on the head and then stood up with the book in one hand, humming all the way down to the basement.

Christine stood there speechless.

"Mona," said Eva and then yawned.

Within another month, there was an orange swing set in their backyard, complete with a plastic slide and monkey bars. Stepping out of the house with Eva one morning, Christine put a hand over her mouth in shock upon seeing it for the first time. "Look what your father built for you," she whispered into her daughter's ear. Eva squirmed in her arms and pointed at the swings, desperately wanting them.

"Now you will not have to go to the park," stated Erik from behind them. "You can stay here."

That afternoon, as Christine pushed her daughter in one of the baby swings, she realized that she'd forgotten something important. With Erik, there was rarely a happy medium. He loved, and he hated. There was no in between. From the beginning, he'd been doomed to either despise Eva for intruding into his life…or to deem her as _his_.

Words couldn't express how grateful Christine was Erik hadn't chosen the former path. But that didn't mean the latter path was going to be easy.

During the night, Erik had also assembled a wooden porch swing with a soft blue cushion. That evening, she sat upon the comfortable seat with him, watching the sunset as the chair swung back and forth on its chains. Eva dozed in her lap. When it was dark, Erik removed his mask.

Closing her eyes, Christine allowed the breeze to brush against her cheeks and forehead. The wind seemed to whisper a single word: _Bliss…. _For the time being, she didn't disturb it. For the time being, she let Erik have his way.

Someday, she would have to have a long conversation with him. _If we don't give Eva choices, she'll want to escape us. She'll want to run away. Can you imagine how awful that would be?_

But for the time being, she let it go.


	27. Chapter 27

Hey, guys! There will be a shorter epilogue after this vignette that takes place a couple years later, and then that will be the end. I thank everyone who had the patience to stick with me on this story. I continue to enjoy all of your comments, and I'm glad that many of you love these characters so much. I've grown very close to them as well. And that is why I want to leave E/C and Eva with many years of life still in front of them.

A big thanks to _MadLizzy_ for editing and sticking with me.

**Read and Review!!!**

It still occurred every several months; he would enter a darker mood and remain in the basement for an entire day. Usually, it was caused by something simple. Recently, a movie had put him into foul spirits.

A beautiful woman and a vilely handsome man were holding sticks of pink cotton candy and walking around dusty fairgrounds in the daytime. Christine was half-napping with Eva beside her. He was drinking hot tea. And, suddenly, he glimpsed himself in the reflection of his glass cup. _He would never escort Christine anywhere in broad daylight all because of this! How dare Christine put movies on that taunted him! _That did it for the day. He marched to the basement.

"Da!" Eva called behind him.

"Sh, sweetheart," he heard Christine whisper. "Remember how we talked about alone time?"

Christine knew. She didn't always understand why, but she had long ago learned to recognize those moments and to give him his space.

In the end, he always remembered what he did have. Even though the past occasionally crept up on him, the present always defeated it. He always came back upstairs, usually late at night. And all he had to do was touch his wife on the shoulder, and she would roll over and into his arms.

Those darker moments were rarer now. For the most part, he sat in his kingdom with a sense of peace. Despite their occasional troubles, his happiness had only grown over the years.

And he was enjoying the hours spent with Eva. No matter what he said, she attentively listened. He could see a hunger for knowledge in her eyes—a need to understand the world. Eva had taken to patting his leg when she wanted to sit on the couch with him. If he was occupied, she would merely curl up on the cushion and hold her toys. If he said, "And what do you wish to read today?" she would offer him a book and clap her hands. He wanted his offspring to be intelligent. The ignorant suffered the most.

Today, he made the offer, and Eva eagerly handed a book to him. He glanced at it and glared. "No. No. We are not reading about a talking mouse. That is ridiculous. We will read about string theory." Eva pointed at a string sticking out of her shirt. "No. Now listen."

In the mornings, he read to her until she said, "Yum, yum." That meant she desired food. He usually reached onto the small table beside the sofa and took a butter cookie from a plastic package. He handed it to her, and she grinned.

"There," he stated. "Now you are fed." He began to read again.

Christine wasn't fond of him feeding her sweets. But he was not fond of the disgusting mush kept in jars, refusing to go near something that looked like a squished frog. Besides, Eva enjoyed the cookies more than the green slime.

Of course, Christine usually entered unaware and asked, "Eva, sweetheart, is it your lunchtime now?"

"No," Eva replied. She pointed at the book to indicate they were busy.

"Oh. Well, let me know when you're hungry. Erik, let me know when she's hungry."

"Yes, my wife." He discreetly tucked the cookies away and returned to the book.

Outside of the mush, there were fewer repulsive issues to deal with as time passed. Months back, when he had been very agitated over the idea of a child, he had informed Christine that slitting someone's jugular vein was more pleasant than a diaper. And he still felt that way. (Actually slitting a jugular vein had never been so terrible, but his wife did not need to know these things.) Fortunately, Christine was resolving that issue altogether, and Eva was a fast learner. She was also beginning to feed herself.

But then there were still those moments when Christine was…much better than he was.

One night, he stepped outside, and Eva quickly ran out behind him. He didn't mind, desiring fresh air and not solitude. The scent of rain lingered, and clouds covered the moon. It was perfect. They walked out to near the swing set, their shoes squishing against the damp grass. And then suddenly he heard a _clank. _He turned to see Eva fall to her knees by the slide and begin to cry. He desperately searched for Christine, but she was inside showering. _Damn._

He crouched down and poked Eva's shoulder. "It is fine," he said. "You are fine. You are not dying." She continued to sob and clutch her knee. "You must not make such noises. You will disturb the nocturnal creatures. Do you want a raccoon to attack you?" The humor didn't help. Finally, he picked her up, intending to carry her to Christine, even if he had to drag his wife out of the shower.

Before he could react, Eva wrapped her arms around his neck and clung to him, burying her face into his shoulder. And he just…let her. He sat on the sofa with her still clinging and sniffling, unsure of what to do except occasionally pat her head. Christine finally emerged, staring at them in shock and nearly dropping the white towel that was wrapped around her torso.

"You should take her," he awkwardly stated. "She believes she is injured."

Blinking, Christine gently took Eva from him and cooed words of comfort to her. She then carried Eva into the bathroom to tend to her wounds.

Yes, Christine was much better in those situations. But…the child did belong to him. He wished for her presence, and the thought of anyone taking Eva angered him. He wanted his family beneath one roof, undisturbed by the outside world. He could monitor and protect everyone in the home. _His._

And that was how it remained for some time. He read and taught his daughter various subjects at least four times a week. The rest of his time was spent composing, reading, enjoying his wife's company, or walking around his land and creating architectural plans. He intended to build a porch and other additions to the home, perhaps even a camouflaged cellar where they could hide in the case of an emergency. Only on rare occasions would he leave his home and go into the city for a nighttime walk with his family. Once Christine had requested it on their anniversary, and he could not deny her.

As time passed, there were occasional arguments concerning Eva's lessons. This especially was true after she began to speak clearly.

"What that?" she asked, turning on the sofa to face him. The cable news was on television, discussing the latest military dispute.

"A tank," he replied, casting a glance away from his composition and toward the screen.

"Tank?"

"It is a machine of war designed to destroy large structures and…annihilate a large number of enemies at one time. It also protects its occupants."

"Oh." She watched it rumble across a desert for a few moments. "Can I…has' one?"

He laughed jubilantly. "I would love one, dear child. But your mother insists on her wimpy car and will not let us have it."

Of course, the first thing Eva said when Christine entered was, "Mommy…won' let us…has' that." She pointed at the television.

Christine frowned. "I'm not sure if she should watch the news. Especially with all the violence."

He scoffed. "My child will be fully prepared to deal with the horrors of this world. She will not be shielded from reality. That is the only way she will know her enemies."

"But it might scare her."

"Nonsense. She simply desires an M1 Abrams. And you are the one who will not allow her to have it."

"Mommy bad," Eva agreed.

Christine rolled her eyes and walked away. "Fine. We'll get her a tank when she turns sixteen."

"Yeah!" exclaimed Eva.

Of course, he chased after his wife and grabbed her from behind, letting her know it was all in play. Christine screeched it surprise and then folded her arms across her chest.

"You do not wish for a war machine?" he asked, refusing to release her. She could never get away.

"When I was a little girl, I wanted a pony," Christine complained with a sniff.

"Yes, but a tank will be less trouble," he replied. "No one will have to feed it or clean up after it, you see?"

Christine relaxed and leaned back against him. "I just…don't want her to think the world is too scary," she replied. "She's only two and a half."

"And she will be educated from an early age. No one will ever be able to take advantage of her."

"But not everyone will treat her badly, Erik."

"Not in the way they treated me," he icily replied. "No. She is physically fine. But that makes her more vulnerable to other evils—to depraved men who wish to prey upon her."

"Well, we'll teach her how to protect herself," said Christine.

"Later we will. She only needs to recognize her enemies. She is safe from them in this house." He kissed his wife's cheek and neck.

"Da! What that?" Eva called from the living room.

"You'd better go tell her," said Christine, finally smiling and giving him a kiss. "You started this."

He returned to the living area and looked at that screen. "That…is a nuclear warhead."

"Oh." A pause. "Can I…has' one?"

* * *

There was so much love in their little world that Christine didn't want to disturb it. She let the next months progress without any major changes, the three of them living simply in their home. Eva received an education that included some concepts college students were probably studying. Whether she understood any of it was up to debate but….

And Christine could see the growing affection in Erik's eyes. It wasn't intense and obsessive love. Rather, it was a simple but warm fondness--an appreciation for Eva and her mental development from an infant and into a little girl.

Still, sometimes Christine worried that Eva would lose her childhood too fast while growing up with only two adults for company, especially with an adult who had a particularly dark view of the world. Christine didn't want Eva to become so cynical that she lost all appreciation for forms of fantasy and play. And friendship.

One night, Christine started to read a book that featured talking cats and dogs dressed in clothing. Eva stopped her after the second page.

"Dogs no talk," she stated, pointing at a French poodle dressed in a purple skirt. "And no clothes."

Christine hesitated. "Yes. I know they don't talk. But this is just a fun book, sweetheart. It's just…silly fun."

"But they don' talk. Da' says _no_." Eva frowned at her.

Christine tossed the book aside. "Fine. What do you want to read?"

Eva smiled and pointed at a collection of Poe's poems that Erik had left in the room.

"Well, that has a talking raven," Christine replied in triumph. "Ravens don't really talk."

"Raben' is…seem-ball-ick," explained Eva.

"I can't believe you even know the word 'symbolic,'" Christine muttered beneath her breath before taking out the morbid book of poems.

The following day, a somewhat frustrated Christine took Eva to a giant play complex for kids. Even Eva couldn't resist the colorful balls, tubes, and moonwalks in the section for smaller children, giggling as she ran to them and climbed inside. She eventually found another little girl, and they rolled a giant rubber ball back and forth to each other. The day was completed with steaming slices of cheese pizza.

"Did you like that?" Christine asked, holding her hand as they walked outside together and into the sunlight.

"Yeah!" Eva exclaimed. She rapidly babbled about all she did for several moments, but Christine could only pick up the words "ball" and "bouncy."

That night, Christine read a story about talking bears living on the moon. Eva was too exhausted from her adventure to complain about them.

The following day, Christine prepared Eva to go the park. She tied little pink sneakers onto her daughter's feet and rubbed her with creamy sun block lotion.

"Where are you going?" asked Erik. He'd been suspicious about their previous outing, although Christine explained that Eva had been antsy and desperately needed to leave the house.

"I'm just going to take her to the park."

"But she has a swing set in the yard. What? Do you wish me to build picnic tables as well? Or one of those idiotic gazebos?"

"No. It has nothing to do with what's _at_ the park. She needs to get out and see other people sometimes."

"Why?"

"Because she has to learn to interact and play and share with other children."

"Why?"

"Because…." Christine sighed and turned to him. "Erik, don't you wish your mother had let you out of the house when you were a kid?"

He flinched and then scowled. "My mother was likely keeping me alive."

"Your mother was keeping you isolated. She took your childhood from you, and I still resent her for that. Don't you want Eva to be able to interact with people? To eventually go to college or get a job or see the world?"

"I…."

"We'll start slowly," she continued. "Only to the park and picnics and some children's activities. Like Easter egg hunts. We can home school her for awhile…see how she does. There are lots of activities for homeschooled kids. But we can't keep her locked up with no one but us."

"And what is wrong with us?" he asked in a nasty voice.

"Nothing! But she needs to meet other people."

With a snarl, Erik stalked off and down to the basement. Christine threw her hands up into the air but decided to give him some time. Bending down, she twisted Eva's hair into curly pigtails, finding her adorable in a pair of purple overalls with white polka dots.

Eva pulled out the pigtails. "No," she stated.

"But they're so cute!"

"No."

"Well, then how do you want to wear your hair?"

Eva pointed to a white hat. She loved her hat collections, probably because her father wore one when he left the house.

"Fine." Christine surrendered. "You can have the hat."

"Hat," Eva agreed.

After that incident, they had another successful outing. Eva toddled around the playground and occasionally interacted with the other children. A little boy was even kind enough to give her a few pushes on a swing, which nearly brought a tear to Christine's eye. She realized that she was going to have to put her foot down on this issue. Or at least force a compromise.

By the time they were home, Erik still wasn't upstairs. Christine made a pot roast dinner while she continued to wait, slicing potatoes and carrots in the silence. As eight in the evening rolled around, she finally tucked Eva into bed, stuck the pot roast in the fridge, and then journeyed downstairs. Usually, Erik came back upstairs on his own time. But this seemed…different.

When she arrived in the basement, he was sitting on the black leather sofa with his head tilted back, staring at the ceiling. Cordie was at his feet; she seemed to prefer the cool darkness in her older age. Christine slowly sat beside him. "Erik?" she softly began. "I never meant to upset you. But can't you understand what I'm saying? Can't you see it's for her own good?"

He grunted.

"Think about it for a moment. Please. Think what complete isolation might do to her." She reached out and gripped onto his hand, silently pleading with him.

"I suppose we do not want her to be in this house forever," he replied after nearly a minute. "Old and alone."

"Right," gratefully replied Christine. "She should have people in her life. I mean, even we wouldn't have met if we'd never gotten out of our parents' houses, right?"

"I suppose not."

She leaned her cheek against his arm, thankful to be making progress. "We'll take it one step at a time. She just needs a little interaction now and then. Playtime with other kids."

"I suppose." A pause. She felt him run his hand through her hair. "Am I ruining her?" he asked, a tremor in his voice. "I told you I could never be a parental figure. But you insisted that I--"

"Of course you're not ruining her! She's so smart because of you. She loves you to death. I think she uses you as a role model more than she does me."

"Good God," he murmured. "She really is doomed then."

"Oh, Erik. I only mean she likes learning and…wants to wear hats because of you. You're not ruining her."

"Did I ruin you?" He asked the question so that she could barely hear him.

"No!" she exclaimed, pressing her forehead against his arm. "Where did you get that? I'm not letting you sit in the dark by yourself anymore."

"At the beginning, when we were in London, I vowed to myself to give you everything normal. I told you I would only need time. Remember? Time, I said. But lots of time has passed. And…I failed. And I do not think I ever can, Christine. I cannot give you completely normal."

"I have a wonderful husband, a daughter, and house," she replied. "What else is normal?"

"I could never go out. Not in the light. You could never have people over. I just…I always despised others. By the time I met you, there was too much…. I could not be the husband on your arm in the daytime."

"Have _you_ been happy?" A tiny part of her feared the answer.

"The years since I have met you…they have been the only ones in which I was thankful for my own birth. Yes, I am. Of course I am. But I only needed you. And you needed--"

"I'm happy, too," she gently interrupted. "I can't imagine all this time without you. What is normal anyway? I've been happy, Erik. Isn't that what matters?"

"I…suppose so. As long as you are happy with me." His eyes were slightly shiny. He tucked an arm around her, and she embraced him tightly."You are here forever."

"I am. I love you." She paused, her hands gently running up and down his back. "I guess what I'm saying, though, is that…Eva might want to leave someday. Not forever. But she might want to go off on her own and see the world. And, as long as she's safe and old enough, we'll have to let her. She'll have to make her own choices just like we have."

"What will you tell her of me?" he asked. "If she ever asks about it all?"

"We'll start slowly. She can know that people treated you badly. And that's why you don't want others around. I think she'll understand that."

"And our beginning?"

"We'll see," replied Christine. "We'll see what she wants to know. Gavin did a beautiful job of cleaning up everything so there's not much out there that makes it obvious what happened with us and _Falcon._ It's not like someone else is going to know and tell her everything. And it was so long ago. It's been years since someone recognized me in public."

"I do not wish her to think me a monster. As with you…I did not want that."

"She won't. She's already pretty protective of you." Christine kissed his cheek. "You're hers, too, you know."

They held each other in the dark, and Erik seemed to relax. She still loved the sound of his breath and heartbeat…the cool softness of his white shirt beneath her cheek.

He wanted certainty about their lives just as she did. But, really, that was impossible—not only for them but for any family. No one knew if they would wake up one morning to lose their job or to experience the unfaithfulness of a significant other. Perhaps the uncertainties of other couples were different, but no one had utter certainty in life.

And maybe the world would be boring that way, anyway. Maybe one of the reasons her young heart had fallen in love with Erik was because he did add a dose of unpredictability to life. Anyhow, they'd taken all precautions, and they had a quick escape if it ever came to that. For now, though, they could enjoy their peace.

Years ago, during their darkest times in London, she'd wondered if they'd even be granted a month of married life together. Already, she'd been given over a decade, and it seemed from all indications that there were many more years to come.

And that was so much more precious than what other people might consider _normal._

She kissed him soundly on the lips and then asked, "Are you ready to come upstairs now?"

"What if I wish to keep you down here?" he whispered with a sinister playfulness. "Forever."

"And then what's poor Eva going to do?" she asked in feigned horror.

"Likely feed herself cookies and drive a tank. She will survive."

"Well, all right then." Christine relaxed into his arms, letting the minutes tick by them.

Yes, this was so much more precious.


	28. Chapter 28

Well, here is the last vignette. A big thanks to all who have stayed with me through "When All is Lost" and "Amongst the Living." These characters have become like family, and it's a little sad to let go of them. The vignettes have probably been one of the biggest challenges to write, and I'm so happy that you guys have enjoyed them.

To those who are reading "Martyr," I'll try to update within the next couple of weeks. To those who aren't, I thank you for all your support throughout these vignettes.

And thanks to my wonderful friend and beta _MadLizzy,_ who truly improves the quality of everything I write.

**Read and Review!!!**

It wasn't long before Eva began to sense that _something_ was different. Christine could see it in her daughter's eyes from a fairly early age. When they went to the park, zoo, or other family-friendly place, Eva would watch other people with intense interest. Or, more specifically, she would watch the fathers.

Christine vaguely remembered being intrigued by mothers at a young age, observing the mysterious women comfort crying children or help their daughters pick out clothing. Her father always said that her mother was still watching over them both from heaven. Of course, as Christine became older, she'd understood the concept of death. Many children had similar experiences, whether their parents were deceased or separated.

Still, Eva's situation was a bit more complicated. She _had_ a father. And he was physically present in her life. He just never came out into public with her. Christine delayed giving her an explanation until a day arrived when it became…necessary.

She and a four-year-old Eva were sitting under an autumn-colored tree with a patchwork quilt beneath them. Christine was reading a magazine, a cool breeze whipping against her face. Eva had been watching several crows hop around and peck for worms; she was probably waiting for one of them to say 'nevermore.' Her attention soon turned to a family of four eating a picnic lunch.

Christine glanced up just in time to see Eva tiptoe over to them. She arose and quickly followed as Eva approached the father, never quite knowing where these situations would lead.

The man had dark blond hair and glasses perched on a longer-than-average nose. "Well, hello there," he said with a smile. "Aren't you cute?"

"Hi there, sweety. Would you like a cookie?" asked the mother. She looked at Christine. "Can she have a cookie?"

"Um. Sure," Christine replied. "Thank you."

But Eva wasn't interested in the chocolate chip cookie. She stood there and continued to stare at the man with a blank expression. Then, Eva reached out and half-grabbed, half-slapped his long nose.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, lurching back in pain.

"Eva!" Christine shouted in horror. She ran over and scooped her daughter up. "Eva! No! You know not to hit people!" Eva burst into tears. "I am so sorry about that," Christine continued. "I can't believe…she's never done that to anyone."

"It's all right," he said with a chuckle as he continued to rub his nose. "No harm done." His wife and two sons were mashing their lips together and trying not to laugh. "It is kind of big, huh?"

"No, it's not," babbled Christine. "Your nose is just fine. She shouldn't have done that. I am so sorry." Feeling ridiculous, she ran off with a crying Eva on her shoulder. After grabbing her magazine and the quilt, Christine carried Eva to the car and snapped her into the safety seat. Eva continued to sob as Christine climbed behind the steering wheel and took several deep breaths. When they both finally calmed down, Christine asked, "Why did you do that? You know better. You know to keep your hands to yourself."

Eva mumbled something between sniffles that Christine couldn't make out.

"What?"

"It didn't…come off," Eva repeated.

"What didn't?"

"His nose…didn't come off."

Christine sighed. "Well, of course it didn't. It's like yours and mine. Your nose doesn't come off, does it?"

"No. But he's a boy," Eva protested.

"Oh…. Just because your father has a different face doesn't mean all boys…or men do. Can you understand that, sweetheart? Most men have faces like us. Okay?"

"Yeah…." Eva was staring out the window, her eyes glistening. "Mommy?"

"Yes?"

"Can only dads…_with _noses come out? And mine can't?"

"No. Yes. I mean, no. I…." Christine hesitated. "Eva, your father doesn't _want _to come out during the day. It's because people have been very mean to him because of his face. He was hurt very badly by people. That's why he doesn't come out with us."

"Why are they mean?"

"I don't know, honey. Some people are bad. And some people just don't understand."

"But he could go with me. And if people be mean, I'll say…'_stop it!'_"

Christine felt her eyes tear up. "I wish it were that simple. But your father went through so much that…it would be very difficult for him to meet other people now. Sometimes things aren't fixed that easily."

"Why?" A pained expression was forming on her little face.

"Because sometimes…sometimes when people have very bad things happen to them, they can't forget. But you know what, Eva? We're all so happy together in our house, and that's wonderful. Even after everything, he loves both of us very much. And he writes beautiful songs and teaches you so many things. That's what you should be happy about."

"Yeah…." Eva paused. "And he comes out at nighttime."

Christine smiled. "Yeah. He does. He'll come out with us at night sometimes."

Christine was worried that Eva might say something upsetting to Erik when they came home, even if she had good intentions. But Eva merely grabbed one of her coloring books and climbed up beside him on the sofa. Erik patted her head and allowed her to color beside him while he worked. She would glance at him every so often, a slightly wiser glint in her dark eyes.

When Eva turned five, Christine began the process of socializing her. They continued to home school her, and Christine had ordered some advanced learning material off the Internet. Still, Eva needed interaction, and Christine finally enrolled her into a children's music class.

At first, Erik was disgusted. "They will teach her incorrectly," he complained. "She will be ruined for music."

"It's only for a couple of months," Christine replied. "If it's ruining any of our teaching, we'll pull her out. Maybe we'll stick her in dance class." He muttered and grumbled but did nothing to prevent Eva from attending.

On Eva's first day, Christine was permitted to stay during the hour and keep an eye on her. Or rather an ear on her. Eva was shy at first, curling her arms up against her stomach and watching the other children with wary curiosity. Finally, another little girl shared a miniature drum set with her, and Eva took it with a grateful smile. She only made one reference to her father all day. "My dad sings really good."

Christine allowed Eva to go by herself over the next few weeks. Erik was grouchy at first, sitting on the couch with a scowl and drumming his fingers on the armrest. If it had been nighttime, he probably would have followed his daughter to class. Christine sat down beside him and patted his leg. "Everything is fine."

"They are likely brainwashing her."

"Eva's too smart to be brainwashed. We'll be lucky if she doesn't say something condescending."

"I hope she does," he declared. "They should be well aware of their inferiority."

Christine rolled her eyes. "You know," she seductively began. "Time without Eva means more time with your wife."

"Indeed?" He reached for one of the educational books on electricity. "I shall read to you then."

She glared at him until he kissed her. If there were any changes in Erik brought about by Eva, one of them was a gentler sense of humor. He was still sarcastic, but his comments weren't quite as …uncomfortably dark as they had been. At the beginning of their marriage, he'd frequently make 'jokes' that involved killing someone. And even though she believed he was kidding…well…it still put Christine on edge. Since Eva, though, he'd developed a sense of humor that didn't involve morbidity.

_Usually._ When he wasn't mad at someone. Or as long as someone wasn't jogging too close to his property.

Erik relaxed, and they managed to enjoy their afternoon together.

As Christine feared, Eva was a little advanced in her class. "I know all the notes," she stated several weeks later. "I know everything the teacher says."

"Do you want to quit and find another class?" asked Christine. "We could try putting you in a music class with older kids. Would you like that?"

"No," Eva replied. "I _like_ knowing more. And I like Hannah and Lauren. _And_…I like _two_ boys." She giggled and paused. "Is that okay?"

"At your age, yes," Christine replied with a laugh. _Just until they try to kill each other over you. _"But maybe you shouldn't share it with your father."

Even if Eva wasn't learning anything, Christine kept her in the class for the social interaction. A class with older kids might be more stimulating, but Eva would have a harder time making friends.

Christine continued to be cautious when it came to Eva telling other people about her family. She thought it was better not to demand Eva stay quiet about Erik; Christine didn't want Eva to be ashamed or to think there was something wrong with her father. So she just gently encouraged privacy and kept an eye out for any problems.

One evening, Christine casually asked, "Do you tell the other kids in your class about your dad?"

"I say he can play music," Eva said, curling up on her pillow with a white stuffed rabbit.

"Do you tell them that he looks different?"

"No," she softly replied.

Christine smiled. "Your father would be very happy that you don't tell them about his face."

"I don't want anyone to be mean to him…like you said."

"Me neither," said Christine, giving her a one-armed hug.

"Is everyone mean to him?"

"No. There are nice people. But sometimes it's very hard to tell if someone is going to be mean or nice."

"Hannah is nice." Eva paused. "Can she come to my house?"

Christine's heart skipped a beat. "Probably not, angel. Remember how we talked about your father not wanting to meet other people? He only wants you and me in this house, okay?"

"Okay. But can I go to her house? Her dad is a fireman."

"You might be able to do that," she replied. "But let's still not tell Hannah that your father has a different face. Tell you what. If you ever really, really want to talk about it with anyone, ask me first, okay? Is that a deal? You'll tell Mommy first?"

"Yeah! And you can make sure they won't hurt him. No one can be mean."

"That's right." She kissed Eva's forehead. "Goodnight, sweetheart."

"Goodnight, Mommy."

Christine departed with a sense of peace.

Years ago, she had wondered if she and Erik could completely assimilate into society. But there had already been too much damage done—too much pain and too many scars. Eva could take her place amongst the living, though. She was going to be okay.

"Boys are yucky," Eva declared upon emerging from her class the next day. "One tried to steal _my_ hat. And Lauren said they have cooties." She dusted off her purple sunhat as though it might be infested.

"Well, your father will be happy to hear that." Christine paused. "Better yet, let's still not talk about boys in front of him at all."

Eva giggled. "Yeah. He calls them…vile…morons." She paused. "What is a…vile moron?"

"Something you should never call people," Christine replied. At least when Erik cursed in front of Eva, he did it in French.

When they arrived home, Eva became quieter. She was always more reserved around Erik, and Christine guessed it was both out of respect and slight caution. Erik had never come close to laying a hand upon either of them, but he would occasionally still yell or growl in a frightening voice. It was likely that Eva sensed she had to be more careful with her father than she did with her mother.

"Did you enjoy your music lesson?" Erik asked as she sat beside him.

"Yeah!"

"Did you learn anything you did not know?"

"Yeah."

Erik bristled. "And what is that?"

"Hannah taught me to…roll my eyes so they're gone. Like this." Eva concentrated and then managed to roll her eyeballs back so that only the whites showed. "See?"

"Oh Lord." Christine shook her head.

Erik chuckled. "Good. At least it was a useful lesson and did nothing to affect your musical abilities."

"Can you do it?"

"No," Erik replied. "And I believe I have enough facial attributes to frighten people without doing so." Eva stared at him in silent confusion, and he softly sighed and changed the subject. "Tonight we will see something different. I shall show you a lunar eclipse."

Eva bounced up and down. "Like in the book?"

"Indeed."

"Yeah. I want to!"

Eva was easy to please when it came to Erik; she only wanted his attention. It was good for Erik because he didn't have to exert large amounts of effort into gaining her affections. He could simply be loved.

Erik stepped out with Eva that night, and she grabbed his hand, never seeming to notice how cold his skin was compared to her own. Her other hand held a small telescope. Erik turned to Christine. "Do you wish to join us?"

"I'll be right behind you," Christine replied, wiping off the last dinner dish.

"Mommy, come see the eps!"

"Eclipse," Erik corrected as they headed out the door. He'd never been one to find child-speak cute. "It is a lunar eclipse."

Christine soon followed them outside and smiled at the sight of them under the stars, both their heads tilted upward. She came to stand beside them, and Erik took her hand, entwining their fingers together. Somewhere between light and dark they thrived.

They thrived in the penumbra.

* * *

Some might say that he had committed questionable acts in his lifetime.

But one crime of which he was never guilty was taking her for granted.

Of course, he no longer went into convulsions when she kissed and touched him. Just as the worst years of his life had shaped him, so had the best. He'd received thousands of kisses upon each inch of his anatomy. Her scent…the soft curves of her body…the feel of her hands travelling up and down his scarred back after lovemaking were now all familiar. He had come to expect physical affection and was able to reciprocate it with ease.

But never once did he forget that he would have been long ago dead without her. He never pretended that he could have made it by himself, and the sight of her still sent a wave of calm over him in his darker hours. Christine remained his joy, peace, and sanity.

He had grown fond of the gentle predictability. He knew he would wake up to his wife at his side every morning, breathing gently on his neck with one arm wrapped around his torso. He knew Eva would run up to him with one of her books every evening with a hopeful smile. He knew he would sit maskless across from both of them at the dinner table every day amidst soft conversation, neither one taking notice of the strange way he ate.

Although, lately, he had noticed Eva glancing at his face. It wasn't with fear or disgust; she seemed to be in thought. Still, it perturbed him. After Eva was in bed and Christine returned to the living room, he asked, "Have you begun to tell her things of me? She stares at me, and I do not know the reason."

Christine hesitated as she took a seat beside him, running one of her hands through Cordie's fur. The cat softly purred. "Sometimes. She's beginning to notice things. She wanted to know why you don't go out with her."

"I do not want her pity."

"Erik, she's still young. It's going to take time for her to sort it all out. And I don't think it's pity. She's just…a little confused. But she'll be fine as long as you spend time with her."

"Ah. Well…." He supposed there was no way around certain issues. If Eva had never noticed her father had a less than desirable face, he would have been concerned about her intelligence. "It is as it is."

Christine grinned. "You'll be happy to know that she's decided boys are icky."

"And I trust you feel the same way?"

"Oh yes. Boys are very icky," she playfully replied.

"That they are."

Christine laughed and looked toward the back door. "Let's go out on the porch swing. It's so nice tonight."

Without a word, he arose and followed her outside and into the night. The swing had pleased Christine greatly over the last few years. They'd sat on it together for hours.

She collapsed onto the cushion with a happy sigh and stared into the distance. He took a seat beside her. The swing slowly rocked back and forth, and he heard her humming gently beneath her breath. After a moment, she said, "Erik? I think I may want to sing again in the next few years. In public, I mean. They're looking for singers at one of the new theaters…."

"I wish you to sing if it pleases you. So long as you come home to me every night."

"Well, I'd kind of like to come home _with_ you most nights," she replied. "I mean, you don't have to see every performance, and I know you like your house, and--"

"I will come see you as often as possible. And Eva can witness her mother's splendor."

She smiled. "Yeah. I think Eva might enjoy the music, as long as I'm not away from her too often. And it might bring in a little money."

"Only if it pleases you." Money had not become a problem. His investments were continuing to do well. In case they failed, he had several new compositions that could be sent out under various names. He never wanted Christine to again feel as though she had to work.

She turned to the side and wrapped both arms around his waist, melding herself against him.

Some parts of his life could not be reshaped. He would never be surrounded by friends at a dinner party. He would never attend parent cookouts with Eva. But he had no desire for either. He would live the rest of his years quietly and surrounded by the only two people in the world whom he loved. And the two females in his life seemed content with what he was able to give them. If they ever wanted more, he would try with all of his being to make them happy.

Christine had closed her eyes, her cheek leaning against his shoulder. "My wife is tired," he stated. _My wife. _He would never grow tired of saying those words.

"Mm," she sighed. "Let's stay out here all night."

He flicked an insect off her arm. "The mosquitoes will dine if we do that. They seem to prefer you to me. And can you really blame them?"

She jumped up and brushed herself off with her hands. He chuckled. His Christine had survived kidnapping, hit men, and childbirth. Yet insects still made her squirm.

He stood. Placing a hand on her cheek, he leaned down and kissed her. She tilted her head upward and stood on her toes, wrapping her arms around his neck and bringing herself closer…as though she needed him. She needed him.

"Let's go inside," she said after he pulled back, the porch light making her eyes sparkle.

"Very well."

Christine took his hand and led him back inside. The door shut, and the light was turned off.

And _he_ was alive. Erik was alive.

_Fin_


End file.
